Gabe’s authenticity and genuine heart were why I fell in love with him as hard as I had. He always made me feel safe and protected, and at the diner （and even now）， I was surprised by the calm ease of my body melting into his, relishing in the familiar curve of his neck as I nuzzled my head under his chin during our impromptu slow dance.
I said, “I do have this one idea. Oak, one of my roommates, was talking about it last week.” I widened my eyes in his direction as a challenge. “That is, if you think your electric boogie is good enough?”
“Oak? Electric boogie? I have no idea what any of that means, but please, I’m intrigued. Lead the way,” he said, gesturing toward the sidewalk.
I took Gabe’s arm and we zigzagged through the crowded Midtown streets until we reached the entrance to Central Park and a sign for Wollman Rink.
Gabe tapped his pointer finger to his chin. “Ice skating?”
I smiled broadly. “Nope, not ice skating.”
We crossed over the Gapstow Bridge, past the pond and the Central Park Zoo to where more and more people were beginning to funnel into a wide, gated entrance.
“So we aren’t skating . . . but we’re at a skating rink? Curiouser and curiouser,” Gabe said, still trying to work out the big reveal.
I grinned mischievously and pointed to the neon sign welcoming the crowds to DISCOASIS: AN IMMERSIVE ROLLER SKATE EXPERIENCE. Happy couples and families with small children continued to usher past us, their Afro wigs and bell-bottoms now even more apparent. “So, are you game to ‘Get Down Tonight’？” I asked.
His smile gave way to a sexy grin. “C’mon girl, ‘Let’s Groove.’” He took my hand, and as we walked in the direction of the entrance, Gabe chuckled. “By the way, how many more of these disco puns do you think we have in us?”
“The night is young, and I’m here ’til the ‘Last Dance,’” I said, singing the Donna Summer hit.
He retorted with a quick, “Well then, let’s get in there so you can ‘Shake Your Groove Thing.’”
We walked up to a ticket window and paid for the “Le Freak” passes, which got you two costume rentals and two drinks, before we were ushered over to the “Funkytown” tent. Inside were racks and racks of fringed vests, polyester jumpsuits, and tie-dyed tees.
I triumphantly held up a pair of hot-pink flared pants with sequins down the front of them. “I must wear these!” I said, and continued rummaging through the racks. “Ooh! With this!” I held up a patchwork bandeau top and a fuzzy white faux-fur jacket, one in each hand, and squealed at my finds.
Gabe looked simply lost. “Um . . . ,” he mumbled.
I nudged him playfully. “I gotchu, hot stuff. Gimme a sec,” I said, handing him my finds and diving back into the racks.
The minute I spotted the outfit, I knew it was the one. I wrenched it off the hanger and handed Gabe an almost exact replica of John Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever white leisure suit, complete with fitted vest, bell-bottom pants, and wig. His eyes darted from the garment back to me, to the garment again, certain I was joking. When I shook my head and thrust the suit a little closer, he sighed in amused defeat and took the getup from me to go and change.
A few minutes later, both of us looking like we just stepped out of Studio 54, we went over to grab our roller skates from the rental counter. Though the leisure suit was an over-the-top, slightly ridiculous costume, the cheap polyester somehow hugged him in all the right places, and he was making that suit look good. Maybe it was this new, go-with-the-flow attitude I wasn’t used to seeing in him? Or maybe it was my childhood crush on John Travolta, but between the ease of his smile, the occasional flash of his dimples, and this new sexy silliness, my heart was practically palpitating, and we hadn’t even started the cardio yet. We flashed our “Le Freak” passes, and a young guy wearing a suede fringe vest and dripping in gold chains handed us two pairs we quickly laced up on a nearby bench.
Before standing, Gabe turned to me. “I haven’t done this um . . . maybe ever. So apologies if this night gets rerouted to the ER.”
I tilted my head. “You’ve ice skated, and didn’t you used to play roller hockey as a kid? You’ll do great.” I stood up, took his elbow, and helped him to his feet. Shaky on his legs like a newborn colt, the white polyester of his suit gleaming in the lights of the glittering disco ball, Gabe, usually so stable and self-assured, looked beyond adorable trying to get the hang of things. After a few laps around the rink, he finally caught on and was able to successfully stay on his feet while doing “The Hustle” along with the enthusiastic crowd.
Settling into the motions, everything seemed to be going well until the DJ cued up “Y.M.C.A.,” the crowd erupting into cheers. We skated, hand in hand, to the opening verse, groovin’ and movin’ to the brass beats, and just as the Village People launched into the famous chorus, Gabe and I threw our still clasped hands up in an all-too exuberant Y, sending us off balance and knocking us flat on our bedazzled behinds.
Gabe’s faux-fro flew off his head and launched into the middle like an errant missile with no regard for its victims. A group of teens, too consumed with taking selfies to pay attention to the scene, rolled straight into the tumbleweave and quickly became a mound of polyester and gold lamé on the floor, causing a multiperson pileup on the disco freeway.
In an effort to not cause any more casualties, Gabe and I army-crawled toward the wall for refuge, not bothering to stifle our fits of laughter. Gabe pulled himself up, and once steady he turned to offer his hand to me, which I appreciatively reached for. I was about halfway to a standing position when he lost his footing for a second time, pulling me down on top of him, and we once again fell to the floor like a pile of bricks.
Through giggles and tear-streamed faces, Gabe managed to squeak out, “I guess it’s not so fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.,” which sent us into another round of belly laughs.
We sat up, and I slid my jacket down past my elbows and rotated my shoulder, which was throbbing a bit, to see if I’d done any real damage.
Gabe’s voice turned more serious. “You okay? Did you get hurt?” He gently took my arm and grazed a thumb over my skin, the touch sending tingles to the tips of my fingers. “Here, let me take a look.”
I stretched out my hand and then made a fist. “No, nothing too serious. I’ll probably just have a monster-size bruise tomorrow . . . but so worth it,” I said with another laugh and wiped again at my still-tearing eyes.
He ran his hand down my back, stopping midway. As he pulled me closer, only inches apart, I closed my eyes and inhaled the sweet smell of Gabe’s clean aftershave. My heart sped up remembering just what a good kisser he was. The fullness of his soft lips. The way his mouth would cover mine as our breath fell into an impatient rhythm. The way his fingers delicately wove through my hair, causing goose bumps to form up and down my arms. The thrill of the memory was almost as exhilarating as having Gabe inches from me now.
With his eyes locked on mine and my pulse thudding in my ears even louder than the disco beats echoing through the rink, I leaned forward in eager anticipation, and just as we almost kissed, I felt the stopper on the front of a roller skate nudge forcefully into my hip, pulling us out of our spell.