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April Saturday, 1960 
I mean, Berkley Osborne and I had
small interest in each other, and
it was happenstance the afternoon
we found ourselves in the ballroom
of Wytheville Country Club, nobody
else around except Judy and Bobby,
her cousin and my pal, so serious
a couple they lost interest in us
immediately, put on a slow record
and stepped out on the dancefloor
to do something that could hardly
be called a dance. An undulating
embrace was what it was. Berkley
and I—joking—started a mannerly
box step. We'd spoken hardly ten
sentences before—maybe I grinned
at her one day in the hall or she
at me in band practice or history
but we'd never touched fingertips
let alone tried to dance. So it's
no wonder we began in awkwardness
and humor, poking fun at the kiss
Bobby and Judy showed no signs of
breaking off. It's strange enough
two couples dancing in a ballroom
with all the invisible chaperones
tsk-tsking, the other dancers not
yet having arrived, full daylight
reflecting over the parquet floor,
a line of chairs for wall flowers
along three walls, tables whitely
waiting for punch bowls perfectly
centered among cups, small plates
for cookies, party napkins placed
exactly so. Music stands awaited
sax man, trumpeter and trombonist;
the discreet piano widely grinned,
and the drums and cymbals yearned
to be punished. Meanwhile Berkley
and I box-stepped our laps nicely
around the ballroom. "Oh my God!"
whispered Berkley; she gave a nod
toward Bobby and Judy, only their
pelvises moving, his hands on her
butt and hers on his. They stood
in place, clothes on, a very good
boy and girl except for movements
of their tongues, hips, and hands.
The record that kept on repeating
was the soulful "Unchained Melody"
which cast a spell over the whole
room—it was like a space capsule
floating endlessly toward unknown
galaxies of eternal mid-afternoon
light with Berkley and me in orbit
around a red-hot Bobby-Judy planet.
Well, the box-step grows tiresome
after you step out box number one
thousand and four. Berkley and I
shifted position, she gave a sigh
then snuggled in close. I noticed
her warmth and her nice fragrance,
also her astoundingly small waist,
and the way her chest fit against
my chest. I think that's actually
what caused the glandular anomaly
that followed—we sort of scooted
our chests around as if we needed
to get comfortable, the sensation
being about as erotic as anything
I've ever felt. So Berkley and I
were acquaintances transmogrified
suddenly into your basic two part
hormonally effervescent lust-unit.
One minute we were innocently box-
stepping away our lives, the next
we were groins and nipples, pubic
hair, teeth and tongues, a public
display of live pornography—well,
I shouldn't exaggerate. We still
had our clothes on, and we didn't
collapse to the floor. The event
was so mental and over so quickly
that the annals of sexual history
don't even mention it. All right,
maybe it was no more than a tight
embrace with a remarkably intense
kiss and maybe the body movements
of accomplished lovers like Bobby
and Judy. Maybe a favorite hobby
of theirs was leading mere casual
friends into situations of carnal
possibility—Berkley and I locked
into each other, parts of a clock
fitting perfectly, moving in time.
We were just kids really, sixteen
and seventeen, we hadn't had much
experience, certainly not of such
intensity or strangeness. I think
Eros looked at Cupid, gave a wink,
and suddenly Berkley sighed, "O,"
which took me over the edge. "O,"
I said, too— We just stood there
breathing and shuddering together.
Embarrassment set in very quickly,
but it was of the bonding variety,
and of course we couldn't go back
to the box step. We tried to chat
and stand where we were, our arms
still around each other, our aims
a bit vague and sentimental. How
kind words were to come to us now
that we had learned such a lesson
of recapitulating ontology, human
folly, and the utter indifference
of stars drifting through silence.
"I have to go to tuck my shirt in"
or "I should splash cold water on
my face" or "Shouldn't we get out
of here?"—our exact words aren't
the point. At a certain emotional
pitch, the tone of a voice is all
that matters, somebody just croon
to me please, and I'll be ok soon.
Ten thousand days have flown away
since that small piece of a sunny
afternoon. Berkley's had her life,
I've had mine, and who can say if
what happened made any difference
to either of us? Her remembrance
may bring her a twitch of a smile
but that's all. Sometimes I feel
I'm a sliver of dust in the great
pattern of creation, I think fate
is a vast intelligence. But then
I recall blips of cosmic nonsense
like that afternoon with Berkley:
Galactic energy started crackling
along the stratospheric periphery
with Darwin and Freud spastically
heaving in their graves and a boy
and a girl in a Virginia town, by
the whimsy of chaos, the theology
of random chance, were flung body
against body. Bless their hearts,
they played their ludicrous parts,
saying "O," and standing in place,
with astonishing kindness & grace.
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