When I noticed photographs in Damon’s apartment with a woman’s head cut out of them and an X drawn atop her body, I regretted not saying “no” earlier that night. I wanted him to like me and didn’t want to seem prudish and uncool. I didn’t want to limit my romantic options or life experiences. Now, I wondered if my efforts to seem easygoing would end up getting me killed.
It was 1999, the height of the swing dance craze. Every night, I went to a different Boston dance venue: Ryles jazz club, Johnny D’s, or St. Mary’s Church to be twirled and escorted to the dance floor on a bent arm. I loved time traveling to an era where gentlemen and ladies dressed up for an evening out and formally asked each other to dance. I grew up watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger musicals, and now I was living inside of one. Keep reading »