Day 4 – Your Dance

The atmosphere is a little dry, reminding you of your middle school principle’s office – no prospects of fun anywhere. The DJ isn’t making things better either, what with her 101 BPM songs she’s been playing. Everyone is simply standing around, drinks in hand, either conversing, avoiding eye contact with other people, or avoiding eye contact with the dance floor. You want to leave, but you just dragged yourself out of your apartment where you’ve been feeling that autumn/winter funk, that maybe-I-should-finally-invest-in-a-UV-machine-funk. It had been ten days since you’d gone out for anything other than groceries and to check your mail in hopes of receiving a letter from you-know-who. Yeah, your ex, the one who disappeared into thin air last year and finally showed up in your Instagram DMs saying they flew to Nicaragua to find themselves and would write you soon.

No, no. You can’t go there, otherwise you’ll definitely leave.

The crowd is starting to get a little thick. The bar/club is one of those split level joints, with the Top 40s playing upstairs and the more dirty, underground House music playing in the basement. People from all over the city come to chill, dance, meet up with friends, dance, probably do some illegal paraphernalia, dance. Summertime you would be all over the place getting down. No drink in hand, sober af, making love to the dance floor. Maybe you’d have your shades on doing double duty – making you feel invisible and invincible while also blocking out the ridiculously bright laser lights. Like, who’s in charge of those anyway? You’ll never know since the security guards never talk to you when you try to spark up conversation.

The DJ’s spun 2 whack songs so far, but she’s mixing in something…something…something kind of funky. There’s this slightly spastic yet warm, familiar feeling happening in your glutei. The song is deep and the kick has this knock to it, knocking on the door to your heart. It’s got a bit of an off rhythm, one more beat between every 3rd and 4th, with the bass humming right between each kickless spot. It starts growling a little bit, then it goes back down, then starts again. Nasty animal. Your neck’s got a little roll going to the beat. Those random snare rim hits, the high pitched ones that are like sprinkles sprinkled all over the track, the ones that make you lose your mind, their volume is increasing slowly.

Your booty spasms get stronger and your legs start doing rolls, inching you closer to the dance floor. Oh no, no no no. A shiny synth just brushed over the top of the intro. Your torso tells you “goodbye, I’m doing my own thing” and starts gyrating, no cares. Then your legs and your torso and your head get together to make a cohesive dance unit, pulling you right up to the DJ booth. Your eyes are closed so you can’t see the DJ smiling and nodding at you, nor the followers you’ve called along with you.

You let go as though you’re in a church giving yourself up to the Holy Ghost. But for you, the club is your church and the dance floor is your pulpit. The congregation can’t take letting you have all that spirit to yourself, so they join you on the dance floor. Yes, you finally leave your worries on the altar, and let the beat carry your burdens away.

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