People were already dancing in a spotlight near the windows. Sarah, whirling in the swirl of dancers, was wearing a translucent milky green silk dress that made her look like a jade figurine. Sarah's hair was rumple cut so short, and dyed such a startling white – that she looked like the crazy blonde from Liquid Sky who kills men with her sex, then prays the aliens will make their corpses disappear.
Drink in hand, Doc watched Sarah writhing slowly in the spotlight almost in Tom’s arms through a long country waltz. She went on writhing sinuously counter to the slow bass back-beat underpinning the acid rock spidery organ while Tom looked for a drink.
Bill was dancing with two very pretty girls, and near them, dancing with the other girls but not with Bill, was another girl who stopped Doc's heart.
Dark hair curled around her shoulders, plush and glossy, yet so dark you almost couldn't see it. His eyes drank in those headlands where so many sailors might yet drown.
He watched her amble toward the tape deck. Rummaging in her purse, she withdrew a cassette. And her brush. Waiting for what finally turned out to be an acid rock version of Elvis Presley’s song Suspicious Minds to end, she brushed her hair back several times. One ear gleamed through her dark hair like a bit of shell.
She put in a cassette.
The pipe band music from the Rio Chongo started gently with a steel drum tapping plink plink plink plink, and she started teaching Sarah how to dance what seemed at first an extra-syncopated samba. Doc, after learning the steps, soon realized all three girls were switching men.
At first he blamed that on his clumsiness in dancing, caused by the fact that he could hardly take his eyes off Roxana. Then he blamed it on the music, which at first confused him.
But what Doc liked about that crazy tikipan pipe music from the Rio Chongo – aside from how it made girls' breasts start jiggling – was how it kept on promising to let you dance forever; it kept whirling you away from Kansas in a swirl of ecstasy in some ways so much better than a love affair that soon you believed you could dance all night with the city lights stretched out like a carpet of stars toward Corcovado, so damn lovely … happily re-syncopating all the old steps you had learned imperfectly and changing partners with blithe innocence forever.
Of course, the music might not have done so much for Doc if Roxana hadn’t trained him to catch her properly whenever she twirled back into his arms – because she always smiled so happily whenever he did it right - and then just as Doc realized he had been dancing simultaneously with four beautiful women, the Rio Chongo flowed home to the sea and the whole extravaganza faded slowly with the pipe band plink plink plinking as the steam yacht full of dancers, hull down, hooted gently over what we may as well call:
Just another lost horizon.
And now think of toffee, caramel: the scent of chocolate, coffee, cinnamon, the smell of poplar honey in the jar, Roxana's dark brown kindly eyes, Earth Mother, Pocahontas, "brown-eyed girl." The way her nipples crinkle dark brown during sex . The deep sun colored brown of beach girls wearing string bikinis; banks of brown-red loam, brown windrowed autumn leaves burning on a clear day with a plume of smoke and red small flames in clusters on the pile. Espresso sugared in the cup. Amontillado. Guinness. Jameson. A roast goose with browned potatoes. Her wet hair mahogany and ancho chilis and a grazing dark bay mare.
She'll be the one you always wanted and the one you really miss.
And what can any blonde be, really, but the after-image, pale and hazy, of which a brunette is the original?