“Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.”
H. P. Lovecraft (1890 - 1937)
“it’ll probably take me five years to learn how to Salsa, another five years to learn Spanish, by which time I won’t be able to keep up with any of these girls”, he whispered to the ears of his friends, while staring at the myriads of girls wiggling their hips at the Latino rhythm.
Some were stiff and robotic. Others were dancing really good; like they had rubber cartilages in their joints, or maybe a whole set of rubberized skeleton.
It’s impossible not to feel alive amongst such crowd. The upheaval of emotion is overpowering… The effervescence of joy is overwhelming….
Salsa seemed to him as a perfect figurative embodiment of the Tit-for-a-Tat concept, but is it so in reality? He made a mental note of asking an expert later...
They proceeded to the bar counter, which was jostling with people waiting for their drinks to be served. They could finally find a slot.
“Damn!” he said to himself. “do all girls look marvelous under dim lights, or am I hanging out in the wrong places during the day?”
No Red Bull? Fine...he can settle for orange juice; he actually doesn’t drink alcoholics (yet?).
“Damn!” the curse was reprised. This time at the tantalizing scene of another girl, drawing half a circle in the air with her extended index fingers. While her dancing partner (that sod of the yo yo!) heaving his furling hands around her waist; he kept rising them until it looked like her bosoms were propped by his thumbs.
“must be easier for girls to Salsa” he said, “or is it that in whichever way they move it suits them quite nicely?”
The orange-juice effect started to kick in.
Suddenly, he felt a sheer piercing pain through his instep, it took him a while before realizing that one hell long of a tapered heel had tread on his shoe. He raised his gaze to see who could be the proprietor of these ivory feet. She’d just completed her swivel by then. Smart enough to realize that she’d stepped on something softer than the parquet floor; she apologized. Then, in a wink of an eye, she'd got pulled back by her partner, who (the other sod of the yo yo) took her for an outrageous dip. (probably as a punishment for being overly courteous with others)
“one thing I like about Salsa”
“oh yeah, isn't that the case with all other sorts of partner-dance?”
“true, but they are kinda softer...man might get overcome with affection. This is more physical...you know... when you Salsa, it’s like you’re holding the halt in your hand”
The dull conversation raged on…..