Already the bridesmaids with their flushed cheeks and swimming eyes have locked onto you. They are looking to throw a bad decision in the face of love tonight, and you are the embodiment of bad decisions. You are the worst decision, in a rad way. You do your patented Get-Up-Off-the-Ground-While-Barely-Using-Your-Hands-to-Support-Yourself move. It's a big hit -- you can tell by all the space the crowd is now affording you. The other dancers are waiting to see what you'll do next, to see exactly how big your bubble of blistering white-hot sex will grow. You dust yourself off to the beat, casually, like a 15-foot knee slide is just how you get from A to B. Everyone is immediately jealous or in love with you and your zero-emission method of transportation.
You take a step as if to walk away, but -- what's this? Your leg no longer belongs to you, it is a slave to the beat. It swings and stomps effortlessly to the music. You use your hands to control it, to overpower it, but it's too late. It's contagious. A full-body pandemic. The other leg is infected now. There is no quarantine, the CDC has collapsed, and soon your whole body is a cyclone of sickly rhythm that catches and collides with everything in its path, specifically other dancers. "Hey" and "Watch it," they yell. This is going really well.