All through the late 80s and early 90s, on almost every Thursday night (and many Sundays), you could find me at Aldo’s Hideaway dancing the night away to alternative music with friends. And almost every week, I would see this tiny little gothic waif of a girl dancing in the corner near the DJ booth.

Dressed all in black, Doc Marten boots, and an over-sized scarf, she had a unique way of moving. She stood, one foot in front of the other, as if on a tight rope, while her arms moved quickly and expressively through the air. It was pure art, pure music, pure joy. My eyes were always drawn to her. I studied her. I wanted to dance just like her.

For years our paths would cross, I would see her in clubs and at concerts, surrounded by a clique of semi-goths, but we never exchanged more than a hello or a smile.

In the mid-nineties, I attended the wedding of a friend of my husband’s. I didn’t know too many people, and I was sitting at a table, not talking to anyone, when I spotted her on the dance floor. She looked different, as some years had passed, but the dance moves were exactly the same!

I joined her on the floor, and I told her that I recognized her by her dancing, which I had always admired and emulated. She was flattered by the compliment. I was surprised by the midwestern accent that came out of her mouth.

Many years later, through mutual friends and dance club reunions we found ourselves together. For house parties, she often made a killer fudge that everyone raved about. It was well worth the hype. It was so good that we wouldn’t put it out with the other desserts for general consumption. We would hide in the kitchen and eat it. It will forever be known as Kitchen Fudge.

Lisa and I became closer when she reached out to me after her breast cancer diagnosis a bunch of years ago. We bonded over the Cancer Club we had both reluctantly joined, with a lot of dark humor. Two old goths laughing in the face of mortality.

I invited her to yoga classes repeatedly, and she finally came. In the warm weather she would show up to the park with her mat, ready to move. And some nights she didn’t move much at all, because she couldn’t. But she breathed. And she kept showing up. Until she couldn’t any more.

She would linger after classes, so we could talk. She had a long, slow, midwestern drag on her words that made her stories sound even longer than they already were. And she had a lot of stories to tell. Interesting, sad, terrible, and wonderful human stories.

She had a rough life. A rough childhood. A rough middle. And a rough ending.

But man, did she dance! Back in the day, she really fuckin’ danced!

Rest in Peace, at last, Lisa Hall. We’re dancing for you now, too.