One evening following my separation, I had wandered into a nightclub in Marlton, New Jersey, unsure of what I was seeking. It was a well-known club that consistently featured great music, had a suitable dance floor, and hosted live bands on weekends.

Then I saw her—graceful, radiant, with a Dorothy Hamill hairstyle that framed her smile—I knew something had shifted. Barbara wasn’t just a great dancer—she became a great lover, and an even better partner. Our connection began that night on that dance floor, where the music pulsed with possibility and the air shimmered with anticipation.

Barbara moved like music itself, outshining everyone around her. I asked her to dance, and though I was a bit out of practice, our chemistry was instant. Her Jitterbug was flawless, and I adapted my Lindy Hop to match her rhythm. That night marked the beginning of a partnership that was both artistic and deeply romantic.

We shared a passion for movement, and when we saw Saturday Night Fever, it lit a spark. Inspired by the film’s energy, we dove into Disco with enthusiasm. We choreographed routines that blended elegance with flair—some borrowed, some invented, all uniquely ours. Barbara could twirl through an entire chorus of Ring My Bell, her spotting so precise it felt like poetry in motion.

Together, we created signature moves: a dramatic backwards dip with her high kick grazing the air, a mirrored repeat that turned heads, and a sequence where we dipped flat to the floor and, with a kiss just below the neck, we sprang into a twirling finish. Our performances often earned applause, Champagne, and affectionate nicknames—Fred and Ginger at local venues, where we were always welcomed with smiles.

On a weekend ski trip to the Playboy Club in Vernon, NJ, the band called us out by name: “Where are our dancers Barbara and Charlie?” We stepped onto the floor to cheers from couples who had seen us the night before. It was a moment of shared joy, of being seen and celebrated together.

Even as the Disco era faded—its demise marked by the chaos of Disco Demolition Night—we held onto the magic. The clubs closed, the music changed, and the art of partner dancing gave way to shoulder shrugs and jumping. But Barbara and I had lived through the golden age, and we had danced it beautifully.

Around the time my sons moved in with me, their presence brought comfort and purpose, but also a shift in priorities. In April 1983, I lost my job and drifted from one role to another, trying to find footing in a world that no longer felt familiar. Friends faded away, partner dancing ceased, and the clubs that once welcomed us with applause had gone dark.

Barbara and I, once so in sync on the dance floor and in life, quietly parted ways. There was no dramatic finale, no harsh words—just the slow unraveling of a rhythm we could no longer find.

  The end of disco marked more than just the fading of a musical era—it marked the closing of a chapter in my life. The glitter dimmed, the music changed, and so did everything else. The rhythm that had once carried me through nights of laughter and applause gave way to silence, and in that silence, I had to find a new way forward.

I found some footing in real estate, enough to keep going, but far from the success I had once imagined. During that time, I met Joyce. We bought a house together and tried to build something lasting, but for reasons I never fully understood, she found someone else. I packed my things and moved out, carrying with me the quiet sting of another ending.

Then came a new beginning. I transitioned into computer programming—a career that brought stability and a sense of purpose. I met Marcia. She wasn’t a dancer, but she had a kind heart. One of our most meaningful moments was adopting a retired greyhound, a gentle soul who had never won a race and was at risk of being euthanized. We gave her a home, and in doing so, gave ourselves a small victory in compassion.

After another job change, I relocated from New Jersey to Pennsylvania. Marcia ended our relationship, and I found myself alone again. I found solace in a cozy little tavern in Jenkintown, where I played pool and slowly built a circle of friends. That Christmas, I bought gifts for my pool hall companions—not out of obligation, but because in the quiet of my life, their presence had become something warm and real.

A decade had passed since Barbara, when, in I attended a singles night at the Blue Bell Inn in Blue Bell, PA. There was a band playing, and while there wasn’t a formal dance floor, the music invited movement. I struck up a conversation with a woman at the bar and asked if she’d like to dance. She smiled and said she wasn’t much of a dancer—but she had a friend who was.

Her friend’s name was Betty.

Betty accepted my invitation, and as soon as we stepped onto the floor, I felt it—that familiar spark, the rhythm returning. She moved with grace and confidence, and I sensed I might have found not just a skilled partner, but someone who understood the language of dance the way I did.

We began seeing each other regularly. Friday nights became our ritual—dinner and dancing at the Blue Bell, where the music once again became a bridge between hearts. On weekends, we shared the simple pleasures: working in the yard, cooking together, grilling under the stars. Betty brought warmth back into my life, not with grand gestures, but with quiet companionship and the joy of shared routines.

It wasn’t the glitter of disco, but it was something deeper. Something real.

Betty lived in Lafayette Hills with her elegant cat, Muffy. Through her, I adopted Brandy—a tiny roadside kitten with wide eyes and a gentle spirit. Brandy became my companion for the next 20 years, often perched on the windowsill, watching birds in the trees.

Betty and I shared five years together. We danced, we traveled, we laughed. Our first ocean cruise took us through the Mediterranean—Italy’s charm, Greece’s history, Spain’s warmth. We became known on the ship for our dancing, and one evening, we were invited to dine at the Captain’s table. Champagne, caviar, and the soft hum of admiration surrounded us. Later, I learned that the Song of Norway was Royal Caribbean’s inaugural cruise ship. Somehow, it felt fitting—our own beginning aboard a vessel of firsts.

My career as a computer programmer provided stability, and I built a comfortable life. But every Sunday evening, Betty sent me home, and I wouldn’t hear from her again until Friday. I longed for more: weekday dinners together, movie nights, a Tuesday dance at the Blue Bell, even just a phone call. But she always declined.

I never understood why. Perhaps she feared losing the independence she valued. Perhaps she thought our rhythm was enough. But I missed Betty. Not just her presence, but the possibility of something deeper. I loved her, but I lived in the margins of her life—invited in only on weekends, never fully embraced. And as the years passed, I began to understand that love, when confined to a schedule, begins to ache.

  Loneliness had driven me back to the Blue Bell Inn, but it was dance—and Shanez—that brought me back to life. She arrived like a melody I hadn’t heard in years. Our eyes met across the room, and something stirred.

I hadn’t planned to dance, hadn’t expected anything more than a few familiar faces and the comfort of music. But Shanez changed that. She invited me into a rhythm that was both familiar and new—one that didn’t ask for romance, only presence.

She was lovely—poised, magnetic, with a presence that made the music feel richer. I assumed the man beside her at the bar was her partner, so I held back. But as the crowd thinned, she approached me and asked why I hadn't asked her to dance after "our eyes met.”

We shared the last dance of the night. She moved with elegance and confidence, and our chemistry was undeniable. Afterward, I walked her to her car. She invited me to sit with her and explained that she was married—her husband played poker on Tuesday nights and allowed her this space to dance. She made it clear: if I was interested, we could meet again next Tuesday. But our relationship would strictly be about dancing, and dancing alone.

I agreed. And so began a partnership unlike any I’d known. What we shared was deeply intimate. Not in the way lovers might be, but in the way two souls can move together, understand each other without words, and create something beautiful in motion. One evening, I complimented her on her authentic black pearls. She smiled and said, “Everything I own is real.” That was Shanez—elegant, grounded, and quietly proud.

Few could spin like Barbara, but Shanez had her own magic. Our dips were dramatic, our footwork precise. Salsa and disco shared a rhythm we both understood, and soon, the patrons at Blue Bell anticipated our arrival. We danced with grace and flair, and Shanez—always impeccably dressed—drew admiration wherever she went. She had a charisma that turned heads and a warmth that made conversation feel like music.

She was so captivating that I invited my son Joe to watch us dance. Shanez was charmed by his gentlemanly demeanor and she hoped to introduce him to Patricia, a young client from her beauty salon. With Patricia’s blessing, she gave Joe her number. That summer, he met Patricia at her family’s vacation home in Ocean City. A year later, on October 9, 1999, they were married.

Shanez became part of my family, and I became part of hers. She helped my son find love. She gave me back my rhythm. And though we never crossed the line into romance, what we had was rare—pure, respectful, and deeply nourishing.

We danced through seasons, through cities, through stories. She introduced me to London as if it were a second home. We won a salsa contest in Acapulco, twirling under the lights like stars reborn. We choreographed routines that drew applause and admiration, but more than that, we built a friendship that held me steady.

Shanez and I stayed close until I moved to Arizona in 2007. Though we had eventually stopped dancing together, the music we made still plays in my memory. Shanez wasn’t just a partner—she was an inspiration. She reminded me that joy can return, even after silence. That connection can bloom, even without possession. And that sometimes, the most meaningful relationships are the ones that ask nothing more than for you to show up and dance.

  After moving to Arizona, I found not only a new dance partner—but a life partner. I had retired to Arizona where I landed behind the turmoil of a painful relationship and hoped to embrace the kind of retirement I had envisioned: one filled with golf, dance, and a meaningful companionship.

I turned to online dating, searching for someone who shared my love of golf and dancing. On April 5, 2008 I met Joan Kirsch. From our first conversation, something felt different. There was warmth, wit, and a quiet elegance to her.

After dinner on our second date, we went dancing at Chances Are in Old Town Scottsdale. It quickly became one of our favorite spots. While I was living in Mesa, we also danced at Anna’s at the Arizona Golf Resort, where we perfected our Cha-Cha-Cha.

When I moved to Anthem with Joan, life became a beautiful duet—sharing everything, savoring everything. Mornings began with golf under the Arizona sun, where the fairways stretched like promise and laughter echoed between swings. Evenings brought the hush of theater lights and stories that stirred the soul. And when we weren’t exploring the arts, we were sailing across oceans on luxury cruises, dancing through decades and destinations.

Friday nights were our celebration. The club came alive with music, and we never missed a chance to dance. Come Back Buddy became our signature bamd, and for over fifteen years, we’ve twirled to their music, our steps familiar, our jundiminished. New Year’s Eve was our favorite ritual—dressed to the nines, champagne in hand, dancing as if time had paused just for us.

Our favorite moments were always the nights we danced. Whether it was out with friends at a local club or gliding across the polished floors of a cruise ship ballroom, those evenings shimmered with laughter, rhythm, and connection. We’d dress up, step into the music, and let the world fall away. The band would strike up a familiar tune, and suddenly we were in sync—two hearts moving as one.

On cruises, the magic deepened. The ocean stretched out beyond the windows, the band played under chandeliers, and the dance floor became our stage. Friends gathered, cocktails clinked, and the music carried us into the night. We danced to big band classics, Latin rhythms, and disco favorites, sometimes performing in showcases, sometimes just twirling for the joy of it.

Those nights weren’t just about the steps—they were about the feeling. The way Joan smiled when the music started. The way our friends cheered us on. The way the world felt full and generous, as if every note was written just for us.

We didn’t just travel together—we moved through life in rhythm. Whether we were gliding across a ballroom floor or strolling hand-in-hand through a port city, there was a grace to our companionship.

But more than the grand adventures, it was the everyday rituals that made our life feel full. Homemade dinners, shared glances during a play, the way she reached for my hand without a word. We built a life not just of memories, but of meaning.

Even now, when the music plays, I can still feel it—the warmth of her hand in mine, the sparkle in her eyes, and the quiet certainty that we were exactly where we belonged.

And slowly, gently, it became growing old together. Not with regret, but with gratitude. With every wrinkle, every quiet morning, every dance that lasted a little longer than the song. We aged like a well-rehearsed routine—familiar, graceful, and full of love.