"I’m a wanna squeeza da girls; I'm tired of squeezin da box," Albert said in a heavy Italian accent.
His body was fat. Curly dark hair fell down on his forehead. Off-centered on his face, a big nose with a hump on its bridge. And his mouth, well, it was wide and turned down at the corners. Except when he danced then it turned up. Albert always smiled when he danced.
He played the accordion at the Italian Athletic Club every Saturday night that is until he didn't. One night, he put down his bellows-driven box and jumped off the stage and danced. Sometimes, Albert danced with his eyes open and sometimes, when he got lost in the music he danced with them closed.
Like a corkscrew twisted into the neck of a bottle, Albert wound down toward the dance floor and spiraled up again. Keeping up with the music, he maneuvered a pretty girl under his outstretched arm. She twirled around and around. "I'm getting dizzy," she cried out. He smiled. He laughed. He danced.
On one Saturday night, there was too much wax on the floor and too much vino in his stomach, which went to his head. When the band started to play the Chicken Dance, he laughed. With his arms akimbo, he leaned back. Flapping his elbows, he looked up and high stepped towards the dance floor. He was going to follow the line dancers, then it happened, he slipped and he fell.
The back of his head hit hard on the floor. His eyes closed tight. His mouth drew down. Albert didn't dance anymore.
His body was fat. Curly dark hair fell down on his forehead. Off-centered on his face, a big nose with a hump on its bridge. And his mouth, well, it was wide and turned down at the corners. Except when he danced then it turned up. Albert always smiled when he danced.
He played the accordion at the Italian Athletic Club every Saturday night that is until he didn't. One night, he put down his bellows-driven box and jumped off the stage and danced. Sometimes, Albert danced with his eyes open and sometimes, when he got lost in the music he danced with them closed.
Like a corkscrew twisted into the neck of a bottle, Albert wound down toward the dance floor and spiraled up again. Keeping up with the music, he maneuvered a pretty girl under his outstretched arm. She twirled around and around. "I'm getting dizzy," she cried out. He smiled. He laughed. He danced.
On one Saturday night, there was too much wax on the floor and too much vino in his stomach, which went to his head. When the band started to play the Chicken Dance, he laughed. With his arms akimbo, he leaned back. Flapping his elbows, he looked up and high stepped towards the dance floor. He was going to follow the line dancers, then it happened, he slipped and he fell.
The back of his head hit hard on the floor. His eyes closed tight. His mouth drew down. Albert didn't dance anymore.
