At the Dance Spot

I dance beside a pillar, the sort of shuffle that is almost a parody, not committed to the action. This is a "1980s to 2000s" dance party. The other people, some in torn denim and neon, know why they are here. They aren't dancing yet and are too concerned with eating and drinking since they had the good sense to make a reservation.

Amber and I were here to dance. We were not permitted to sit at one of the tables for a rest, though I am sure I could have changed our fortunes by smiling at the right, early-fifties woman.

Amber sways against the pillar as though their back is connected to it by a cord. They are the more socially anxious of us and less given to cutting loose when we are the only two in the venue dancing--if one is generous with one's definition of the action.

"I have to keep this spot warm," I tell Amber of the three-foot square where most of my movement occurs. "It is the Dancing Spot and must be fostered to spread."

I was surprised Amber said they wanted to do this, and they reiterated it a few more times to ensure I understood. They are so busy finishing up their degree and prioritizing a sleep schedule.

An hour before we arrived, I was prepared for it not to happen. I had skunked it last time, feeling sick and resenting that. Going out dancing is a spoon-intensive activity, especially as it was scheduled to go until eleven—though I held no illusion it would not be for us. We ate at Yum Yum Noodle House. Amber offered me an out and said we could go home if I was not feeling up to it. I couldn't imagine taking it.

The setting, Hudson House Distillery, a grand structure that looks like a castle mated with the nearby monastery, is not a typical club. It appears as it is: an upscale restaurant and venue, the latter of which Amber noted as we approached.

"Is this used for weird rituals?" they asked.

"We do weird rituals. I met you at one."

"Like weddings," they added, though few people would claim these are particularly weird rituals.

"We could have been married here if we were entirely different people."

"We still could," they said, but it would not be tonight.

The DJ is abysmal. There is the cliche that an iPod on shuffle could do the job. An iPod would not overlap the beginning of one song for thirty seconds with the end of the last, the dissonance leaving the dancers pained and confused. Aside from a few women who tried to put in requests (which I am unsure the DJ accepted), I cannot imagine many of us wouldn't have preferred something automated.

It is not to credit my Dancing Spot spreading for why others populate the floor, better blamed on a few triads of inebriated women in torn shirts and headbands having racked up enough $16 drinks. With them come the rest, finding their bravery by turns.

I grow bolder. Amber, whom I assured I would buy an overpriced drink (but who does not accept), sheds enough inhibitions that their dancing loses all fear and irony.

Our first date was ostensibly to go dancing. However, the feel of their hand filled me with such a sense of rightness that I spent an hour trying to coax them to speak. Then, I took them for a walk, where we had our first kiss, then our next thirty.

Their dancing is still playful. I doubt anyone else notices us as we migrate further from our pillar. When Amber takes their nightly call from their mother, I mimic two women's moves. I am only a good dancer by copying and learning moves from playing Just Dance, which is less transferrable when I do not unthinkingly respond to glyphs and paper white coaches. Once Amber is back, I dance only for the two of us, occasionally incorporating movements someone else is doing. I need this. Not dancing, per se, but, yes, dancing. I need to be out and social. I need to see Amber under flashing lights, their perspiration glittering on their forehead, an open smile because we are together and one another's. Our mental health struggles, job concerns, and all the rest are banished.

As we prepare to sleep, we hold one another, our hands resting on each other's thighs. This is a familiar position, one we often start in before drifting off to sleep. But tonight, I feel a surge of contentment, a feeling that was foreign to me just a few hours ago.

last watched: Loudermilk
reading: The Illuminatus! Trilogy