"Wun Too Fee! Twoooo Too Fee!" the Asian dance instructor hollers above the piano music as we spin around the room.
There are too many of us here in this dank dance studio, and it's hard to maneuver. The piano is in desperate need of a tuning and so we stumble off-tempo to what I can only assume is suppose to be Mozart.
"And gwiiiide....gwiiiiiide," the Instructor says with a smile and a nod.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Despite all my denial, it is evident: my ass has returned to its more comfortable gargantuan state.
My partner doesn't seem to notice. He smiles aimlessly, oblivious of his rampant body odour and gunkiness.
I've been in this studio one too many times. It's familiar and haunting each and every time. Over crowded, but bright, it offers congestion, murkiness, and stagnation in exchange for your attendance.
"Twooo too fee, Feee tooo Fee..." the Instructor smiles and nods. He's happy to see me here. He's always happy to have participants.
"OWCH!" I scream and lose my concentration. I elbow my partner in retaliation.
I take a moment to inspect my now throbbing foot which he inadvertently (although predictably) stomped on.
"Prick," I mutter under my breath as he continues to smile there like a dumb puppy impervious to its owners' agitation.
"WUN TWOO FEE! TWOOO TWO FEE!!" yells the Instructor in my ear in an effort to encourage me to resume the dance.
I nod as I brush a strand of hair away from my face. Despite my hatred of this wretched dance studio, I remind myself that the exercise will have some benefits.
I raise both hands into position and brace myself for the first waft of stench as my partner raises his.
It's funny how the stench disappears after a few moments.
Funny and sad.
And pathetic.
And lame.
I try to advert my attention away from the large circles of sweat stains that hover underneath my partner's armpits.
It's gross.
In an effort to distract myself from the sheer agony of a situation that I willingly entered, I start to focus on the finer details of my partner's shirt.
As we turn, I notice for the first time that it is emblazoned with his name. He wears it with pride like the Loser he is.
I read all five bright red letters that arc across his back. He smiles. He thinks I'm admiring it.
I'm not.
"New shirt?" I ask, not really caring what he answers.
He nods with an even wider smile.
"My mother made it for me," he tells me between pants as he turns me around the room.
We weave awkwardly between the other uncoordinated participants. The room is getting hotter. Dust particles bounce frantically in the air, adding to the congestion.
I hate my partner.
But he's the only one I seem to know.
The only one that likes to dance with me.
And as he turns me one more time so I can see the letters of his name in the mirror again, a tear begins to fall down one cheek.
I'm so tired of dancing with him.
As the song ends, I walk to the side of the room and grab my bag. I'd like to think I'm done for good, but the odds are is that I'll be back.
The pianist takes a sip from her diet cola, as I wipe away some sweat from my brow.
"You leaving?" he asks as I head for the door.
"Yep," I tell him as I turn the knob.
As the door begins to shut behind me, I hear the Instructor petitioning for poor pathetic uncoordinated sweaty Doubt to have a dance partner.
I'm sure he's standing there alone and disappointed in the middle of that crowded floor, but I don't care.
"Anywun? Anywun?" are the last words I hear before the door clicks shut. And as the tuneless piano begins to waft music through the hall, I walk away relieved that the piano music is soon replaced by the sound of my footsteps as I scurry as fast as I can towards the doors to the real world.
