The Sea Glass Ballroom
The premise
It is closing night at the Sea Glass Ballroom, and from your coat-and-ticket booth you have watched the floor all summer — and reread the letters a handsome lifeguard has been sending you, letters that know you better than anyone alive. His last one promised he would cross the floor and find you before the final song. But the nearer he comes, the wronger he sounds, and the band is running out of numbers.
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How it opens
The Sea Glass Ballroom has gone half to shadow. Past your coat booth the floor is thinning — couples drifting toward the doors, the mirror-ball throwing its last slow snow of light across the boards. Out there Del Rourke is still laughing, brown from the beach, a girl on each arm. The whole summer's letters ride in your coat pocket, tied in ribbon, the last one on top gone soft at the folds from rereading: closing night, before the final song, I will cross the floor and find you. You have read it until you believe it. Behind you the band leans into another number and Augie lifts his baton without once looking down. …
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