He had been all too happy to dance with her, had felt more alive as they danced than he had felt in a long time, since before what he longed to forget. And with her, it seemed almost forgotten, a distant, faded memory as he became lost in a vision of her dark waves of hair, her youthful beauty a picture of perfection.
He had been so absorbed in taking in each detail of her, so consumed by the visions she was causing, the feelings he was having, that he had completely forgotten about his notebook and notes.
"That... would be the name I go by when I write certain selections of material," he said, running a hand through his hair again. "My last name is actually Fitzgerald, so I thought it was a clever literary allusion." He'd always been freakishly into creative things, music and writing and poetry, literature in general, took such things in like a sponge.
"Besides, I can't imagine the look on my mother's face if she knew," he added, with a chuckle. And yet, another thought pressed him, made him feel giddy with glee. She knew who he was... Well, sort of.