"Oh, I gotta dance!" said Brock, jumping out of the passenger seat and striking a pose in front of a white garage door. I rolled the windows all the way down and blasted Branigan through the neighborhood. Brock moved his hands dramatically in time to the music, his feet joining in with kicks and toe-points, his face locked in the seriousness of le danse. 'Twas all very gay and very wonderful.
"You really dont remem-em-ba," she sang, "all the voices in your head, was it something that they said, calling Glorrrriiiaaaaaa ..."
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Somewhere, up the street, a kitchen light went on. A window to our left slammed shut. We didn't care.
"Go 'head!" I hollered to Brock with a whoop of laughter, "express yo' self!"
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