It happened on the dance floor 2 February 2008, 20:53

In a more innocent time, we rang in new year 1998 at Wilde Wereld, Wageningen’s venue for gay pub nights. I was singing hard to Don’t Speak by No Doubt, which suddenly morphed into an ironic duet with some slightly older guy in a dark suit jacket and slacks.

Something always happens. Like Danish foreign student Michael and I improvising the James Bond something-or-other Acid Boogie in Angouleme (2001) or other fellow student Pieter-Jan cutting in when I was dancing with my then-boyfriend-future-husband at our grad hop (also 2001).

But not on a dance floor

In hospital emergency (year undisclosed), on the other side of the curtain, a female patient and her male visitor (husband and wife?) spoke a language I couldn’t guess at. Through the bizarre clarity of fever, their talk sounded lovely to the ear, and yet I could not part the curtain to look for clues as to the language’s origin based on their appearance.

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