He can have small feet, as long as he can carry his own weight, lurch, shuffle, flex, beat ride heel-to-toe. Her grandfather was a Fred Astaire clone, stiff-faced in intimate mirrors, demanding as a choreographer on low-budget. She would love to dance with a drunken sailor in her bedroom, as long as he is full of salt & mist, good jokes, & sleepy-eyed soul. She doesn’t want a cold wind from nowhere. She doesn’t want a tattooed stunt man with no sense of tap & history. Or a man who can’t improvise deep house to bass & drums, can’t grasp her internal rhyme schemes. That would be a sound-proof wall of death. She wants a jazz saxophone to blow heavenly blue notes under her star-cuffed mini-dress, all day long.