The Dance at St. Mark's

I was twenty-three, finishing nursing school, and my cousin dragged me to a community dance at St. Mark's Church in the East Village. I almost stayed home. Thank God I didn't.

Wei was standing near the punch bowl looking like he would rather be anywhere else. I asked him to dance because my cousin dared me. He said yes in careful English and then apologized for stepping on my shoes — twice.

We danced to something slow. He told me about the shop he hoped to open. I told him about the night shift at Bellevue. By the end of the night he had my phone number written on a napkin from the refreshment table.

He called the next Sunday. He called every Sunday after that for a year until I said yes.

People ask how a Chinese immigrant and a Puerto Rican nurse made it work. We made it work the same way anyone does: we listened, we showed up for each other, and we never ran out of stories to tell at the table.