by Lucretia Smith

Andy Gibb wants to marry me. His song “Shadow Dancing” has been Number One for seven weeks. On the back of the album cover, he is wearing platinum satin pants and an unbuttoned silvery silky shirt. I can see the hair on his chest. I can’t believe the way he looks on that album cover. His legs are open, and I am slowly understanding what is between them, under gleaming fabric.

He takes me out to dinner where I can eat everything I want. He has his guitar. The restaurant is fancy. Champagne dances in pale cups that are upturned half-bells. The napkins are cloth, too. I wear black chiffon, the gold threaded in my semi-sheer black dress a disco glint, just like the top I saw at the mall. Only better. I am in Junior High but with Andy
it doesn’t matter. I am mature for my age. I bloomed early. His smile is sweet as he orders for me: Fettuccini Alfredo and Tab on ice. Then we go swimming and he holds me in his arms. We splash around. The sun is setting, and everything is orange and pink, even our skin. I wear a gold swimsuit. His is sea-green. He sings one of his songs for me as the
water moves like music around us. We are sea creatures. Coming up for air is fun, sputtering water looks like diamonds scattering. I tell him if he wants to visit me at school to ask for me over the intercom.

Lucretia Smith’s award-winning writing has appeared in the Los Angeles Review, RE/Search! and Flyaway Literary Review. Her films and art have been exhibited nationally and are held in private collections. She has a BFA in filmmaking from New York University, and an MFA in critical studies from California Institute of the Arts.