I don't know her, but I know I love her ...

I spend a lot of time in coffee shops writing.

And eavesdropping.

Maybe you'll say it's wrong, but I learned a long time ago in law school that when you enter the public domain, you sort of forfeit your right to privacy. (Granted, there have been much longer and more eloquent discussions of this premise and its nuances in various Supreme Court decisions, but allow me to cut through the layers for you: Coffee shop discussions are perfectly acceptable fodder for writer's block.) 

Some of these discussions have made their way into my stories, and some have just made their way into my consciousness. And some have just entertained for a moment, and then evaporated. 

But some stick with me. One overhead conversation still haunts me, not because of the speakers themselves, but because I can't stop thinking about the woman they were speaking about:

Woman: "You can't just drop in on her without calling first."
Man: "Why?"
Woman: "Because you just can't. That's why."
Man: "But, why NOT?"
Woman: "Because, my God, she could be ...
who knows what she could be doing ...
she could be ...
I don't know ...
what if she's DANCING?"

Gasp. 

I think about that woman often, at home where no one is watching.
And always, she is ... indeed ... DANCING. 

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