It was the summer of ’76, and my Mom had been killing men with her hipbones. Innocently enough, while doing the hustle. Until my Dad merely ended up in traction and that was how they met. Perhaps it was the way she nursed him back to health, or the murderous glint in her eye, placed there accidentally, that made him fall for her. It's just as well she felt the same, because the near 24-hour care needed for his recovery kept her out of the clubs, saving countless lives. 

When my Dad was well enough to return to work so too my Mom returned to her dancing routine. Deep down I think that worried my Dad, and that he was always afraid that maybe another man would be able to withstand the horrors of such an intense dance move. What if this new lame duck's injuries were more severe than his had been? What if his previous massive hemorrhaging was made light bruising in comparison? Would she leave him if he could not measure up?

But that day never came, and he would always breath deep sighs of relief when my Mother would walk through the door of their small apartment not with stretcher in tow, but alone towards the kitchen to apply club soda to the blood stains.