
After dinner I decided that dancing was more important than sketching. Terry and I mixed it up with all the other flappers on the dance floor. The room was kept mysterious thanks to a theatrical fog machine. Flappers and gangsters mingled and talked. In the men's room bullet hole stickers punctured the stalls and doorway. There was a wide assortment of silent auction items, the most tempting one being a kitsch oil painting of a monkey dressed as royalty. Many revelers thumbed their noses at prohibition.
When the band began playing again after a break, Terry lounged on the steps in front of the group like she was part of the act. A group of people got up and started shooting photos with their cell phones. Terry blocked her face with her black gloved hands but the photographers persisted. She finally had to retreat off the steps. For the rest of the night we danced to the point of exhaustion. Rainbows End played tirelessly. I recognized the saxophone player from sketches I had done at the Monday Night Jazz sessions at the Grand Bohemian. I kept wondering when police would raid the party.
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