Like a dream, I remember her.
And as such, I don't know where she came from. But she is before me now as I sink into the familiar couch, Sacha's spliff in my hand and the disco ball from the amp painting in all it's neon colors: red, blue, and green, and pink.
She's dancing in roller-skates on the Moroccan blue wood floor, in tiny green sequin shorts and a loose-cut halter top, and her name, of all names, is Rachel, which is why I remember.
I remember meeting her once, just once, here, a couple years back. A bright summer sun was coming in with the breeze. I maybe spoke to her for a minute, no more. About what I don't remember, but her name, she told me her name, and I remember thinking, "Rachel, what a coincidence."
I remember she made an impression. One that I'd all but forgotten about. Until tonight.
It's like a dream, this is.
My hand changes colors when I put it to the light.
