Our era ends

Sneakers, a bowtie, and black polka dots under a shining smoking jacket, I grinned like the boyfriend the Betsey girls didn’t have back in high school. Prom night. Time for sloppy wet kisses, screaming sentimental secrets, and dance floor anthems we’ll never forget the words to.

It was the last dance. We threw it ourselves, knowing our school is not the type for banquets or balls, homecoming or black-tie affairs. We rented out a bar. J-Prom, Carly called it, as she handed out little red tickets during our last days of lecture hall.

We cabbed west on College, finding a tiny bar filled with familiar faces, ribbons and balloons. Knowing we wouldn’t be all together like this again until convocation, if ever, we bought each other drinks, toasted to semesters past, then to moment; finally the future.

We chose our most likely to: become a CBCelebrity, take down the man, and teach our kids when they go to college years from now. (For medicine or law, we hope, anything but what we did.)

The DJ spun a few last classics always requested at prom, and we filled the floor, wrapping our arms around each other, and spitting out the lyrics.

So we crooned: A singer in a smoky room, a smell of wine and cheap perfume. For a smile they can share the night. It goes on and on and on and on…

And we held on to that feeling.