dance card

So...after I graduate. It's the question that dogs every senior, what are you doing afterwards? I usually flee to an explanation of my summer plans and hope that will suffice, but beyond that we both know a blank future looms--and I mean blank like a dance card with only one or two names filled in. I'm standing in the midst of a swirling dance, watching some couples relishing the music and their intimacy, some only dancing dutifully and listening sharply for the final chords, and some, like myself, standing on the perimeter enjoying it all but not dancing. I see several fine looking young men, and I hope at least one might see me and put his name down for a dance.

Who are my choices? Well, Mr. Editing seems to lurk at these affairs, but he's looking more dapper than usual--perhaps it's because he's realizing that editing can also mean editing for a publication which incorporates other interests, such as art or sewing and need not be limited to documents or poorly plotted books. Mr. H. T. Guide (I think his initials stand for Historical Tour) walks in and out of my peripheral vision; he looks interesting but seems rather elusive. I don't know about him. There's my old friend, Mr. Housekeeper, who reminds me that my card need not be filled with the names of academic types. And then Mr. Nursing-School is a recent addition to the pool, or at least I haven't noticed him before; I tilt my head. You know, I never would have looked twice at him, but come to think of it...

I've eaten the ears off my chocolate bunny as I've been typing.