Slow, quick, quick. Slow, quick quick. I hear the counts again and again in my head as I lead my partner across the dance floor. We stare into each other's eyes as our hips sway to the stuttering beat. Foreign, this place is not. Like mother's arms, it soothes me, as the fingertips of perspiration roll down my chest. A smile tickles it's way across my face as I realize there is nothing in the world I'd rather be doing. I love to dance.
Ever since I was a child, I've greatly enjoyed music. I can recall with equal ease and enthusiasm days where I, a six year old boy, would return from school to the livingroom whereupon I would spend entire afternoons listening to music. I would sit in my father's chair, King of My Universe, tapping along (and yes, singing) to the baseline of the song that reverberated off the cold, hardwood floors. Oldies, bluegrass, pop, rock, it didn't matter to me.
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