My tired brown brogues were resting. Lounging lazily at the edge of the dance floor once more.

It had been months since my sensible shoes had crossed the threshold of this particular club; gone but not forgotten.It was now high summer and many feet were bare, shed of silk and cotton, leather and canvas.Suddenly a flash of red, a swirl of color, a whisper of sound……..could it be?Not shoes. A gypsy skirt of iridescent hues.  Red and gold and orange and blues.Fatigue departed, and my sensible brown brogues were on the trail again.  A skirt, a skirt, of reds and golds, swirling, spinning, soaring, lifting, takingmy breath away. Kodak moments of long pale legs, feet twisting, turning, tapping. Dancing away, away from me.Lost among the crowd, a glimpse here, a glimmer there, that one red skirt tantalizing me with it’s frantic song of movement, invitation and promise.I followed, I reached, I touched, I dreamed, of catching that gypsy skirt and wrapping it around me.  To be lost among it’s colors of wonder, sliding myhand beneath it’s folds, finding the lace at the apex of it’s owner, dreaming, and tripping over my brogues, losing the dream and falling to the floor.Well sh*t! Nice move Sherlock. You’ve fallen down and you can’t get up.  Medic, medic!Time I think to retire the brogues……………….