Iffy at best

I read this to one of my students and she said I should try to publish it. Here is my compromise.

I sat for the first few minutes at the side, waiting to jump into the whirlwind of sliding shoes, sweaty bodies and touching limbs. My mouth watered at the sight of a luscious brunette hamming up the finish of a spin. I felt like a child that is told he can only have one piece of candy from a large bowl. I tapped my feet, watching.

After a while, the music itself started to get under my skin. Not in a bad way, but rather it became a part of me. I found myself whistling and sliding down random hallways at work. It's a visceral experience, something that is absorbed, not imbibed. I always appreciated beauty, but I didn't consider myself an esthete until I went dancing. The ability of the human form to become art amazed me; but when that art was in full motion, gliding across a floor, spinning and jumping, experiencing it became sublime.

I couldn't stand sitting still anymore. I bounced to my feet. Rock step, kick-step, kick-step, and, kick-step, repeat ad infinitum. At one point I even closed my eyes. The lead singer was crooning about drinks and I understood. He screamed it, "Whiskey!" and I thought of how the Irish call whiskey the water of life. That's when she touched my shoulder.

The Brunette was wearing glasses that highlighted her eyes; her extended fingers beckoned and seduced me; and her smile parted slightly as she asked if I wanted to dance with a person. Oh dry wit! I tried to halt my knocking knees and spun out onto the dance floor, wishing it would never end.

--pleasemakeacomment---