Taj Mahal by Constantine Gochis

 Time for another Constantine Story!!!!

Taj Mahal

She stood, barely taller than the wrought iron fence that shields the elderly from the world they have eschewed.  Others lolled around umbrella shaded tables that fronted the Golden Years Retirement Hotel. Some fed the omnipresent fat pigeons, others dozed under a friendly sun.  There remained only the call that would announce the evening meal.

There was nothing passive about her.  She wore an air that denied capitulation.  A coquettish hat crowned an ermine collared jacket of yesteryear.  She held gloves that could not ever fit over her multi-ringed fingers.  I had the feeling that all her accessories had to match.

"Hello there!" she called out, as I was passing.  "What's your name?"

I approached the fence for a closer look at this little lady dressed to go somewhere.

"My name is Anita," she said extending her hand.  I took it gingerly, lest the slightest pressure on the multi-ringed fingers cause her injury.

"I was a dancer once", she announced. "I danced at the Taj Mahal."

"In Agra, where the Sultan built a temple to his beloved?  How seductive", I said.

"Not that Taj Mahal. Not India. New Jersey, where they had all those casinos, and the great boardwalk."

"You mean ballroom?"

"Yes. I danced professionally with my husband. He left me a year and a half ago."

"He abandoned you for another lady?" I asked impishly.

"No, he died."

Departing the realm is not unexpected in these environs, I thought.

"We danced everywhere, but we were a big hit in the Taj Mahal."

She raised her arms and made a respectable pirouette.

She was wearing very high heels but she came to a graceful fianle and smiled, charmingly and professionally.

"You know," she said, "there is dancing on Melrose Avenue."

I know of no cabarets that feature dancing on Melrose Avenue.

"Really?" I asked, my tone suggesting my doubt.

"Really. It's on Melrose Avenue. Not far. I went there once, but it's no Taj Mahal."

She is right. It is not a cabaret.  It is a senior center. 

A local newspaper advertises dancing from 12 noon to 2 p.m. every Saturday afternoon.  Indeed, not a Taj Mahal.

"Let's go dancing," she said suddenly.

I was surprised.  I did not know how to answer tactfully.

"Will you drive? I do not have a car," I said. I knew full well she could not.

She was clearly disappointed.

"Never mind," I said. "We can return in our imaginations and dream of the Taj Mahals of our glorious yesterdays."

She extended her ringed hand.

I brushed it with a kiss.