That night when I get home all I can think about Dawn Michelle at Stage 2. I think about her being coy and refusing to dance and trying to engage her suitor into a deep intellectual conversation indented and then, the moment Just can’t Get Enough starts to chime through the amplified chuff of the speakers. Dancing, flailing her limbs and not being able to control herself. Sopped in variegated splotched of light pinwheeling around the contours of the dance floor in a frenetic dervish swirl. She can’t stop dancing. She is losing herself against the thump and burlesque falsetto of mingled voices. She feels her torso magnetically peeling into the direction of anything male. She is losing herself beneath a tempoed drape a synthesized hymn of human longing. She is dancing. Her hair is simultaneously spilling in five discreet directions at once. Her hips undulate and sway. I can see the lids of her eyes closing like gladiolus petals at dusk. And she is dancing. She is moving. She despises dance but she somehow cannot refrain.
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