The fan, humming to the tunes of the dance music, tries with limited success to dry the floor still wet from the mopping done just a few minutes ago. The dancers wait eagerly while the music minds its own business and progresses without any regard to the chaos that has just now settled. If you don't mind the squeaky sound you wouldn't know that anything was amidst.
A sense of anticipation nearly as thick and yucky as the coat of yesterday's party on the floor. The light is dimmed and the music still continues its discourse, letting anyone who cares speak with it through dances.
The mop is done its work, though its work is only half efficient as the wringer is missing, so another mop had to work as the dryer, and eventually it is soaked. The number of feet begin to collect, slowly, on the now wet as well as dirty floor. Two feet go to the center where no mopping was done, to see if there's any difference. The center is the control for this haphazard experiment of mopping. Nothing significant, but at least the place doesn't feel disgusting or smells like yesterday's beer.
The bell rings, someone is outside, more pairs of feet about to come to the experiment. A pair goes to the source of the music, where a line extends from the top of the haphazardly placed table to a power source. It blocks the natural way of getting to the chair meant for the DJ. The DJ's feet have to go around the table to sit down, to inspect the music. Yes, the music is great but few people can dance on this wet floor. Few feet are moving naturally but grumbling remain.
Four feet are moving, moving, and will be moving for a while, accompanied by instructions from one person to a novice whose feet desperately want to move in a different way, in a better way. The toes, if you could see them through the sexy glittery shoes, are just jumping separately or in unison. One day they will move even better than all the feet tonight. The heart guides it.
The floor eventually dries. The fan eventually shuts off. The feet eventually gather more and more, pivoting, walking, in unison, according to the music, harmony, melody, as if conversations are made in silence with the music in the background, like a painting. Very soon, the silence conversations are ever louder, some are confused, actually, many are confused, as if they are language students trying to practice in their new languages, but some are talking, very intimately. The floor still sucks, there's like a dirty glass panel between the two people talking, but still, those that can speak the music fluently, speak with no problem, there are smiles when the music smiles, there are tears, when the music cries. There's no anger, no speaking of hope, at best there's playfulness.
But then plenty of feet wearing various kinds of shoes are not moving. They are part of sitting legs, waiting for an opportunity to join the fun, or at least what seems fun. A pair went up to another pair, the the two pairs, the pair of pairs, move to the dance floor. The DJ still is sitting. He surveys the feet, he surveys the feelings, the mood, how much boredom, too fast, too slow, there's analysis.
Then there are the pair of brown eyes, so mysterious, so beautiful, so elusive. His eyes meet hers, but there's no signal. Her feet are already moving, there's no opportunity left. This is the last one, the last set. His anguish can only be outdone by the anguish in the lyrics of this otherwise very upbeat song. The DJ, whose feet walked with the mop in the experiment of questionable success, longs to meet her feet. But the night is yawning at the few remaining feet left. He has to end.
And so he does. The Cumparsita comes up, and his eyes are closed to her, she vanishes, and her pretty shoes that enclose her little feet also, vanish.
