Dana takes my hand and pulls me into the crowd, through a collision of skin and denim, clashing rhythms and thrashing bodies gnashed together. Chest against flesh, I can hear the music through her, finger pulses typing code into my limbs. I sway, rocked in the crush, hemmed by the gentle ravening. Moved to move and led astray, I listen to Dana’s steps and dips, watch each beat breeding a syncopated beading upon her brow. Sweet, glistening moments, tussled into tempo and thrown with little twirls. Elsewhere in the gaudy ruckus, all else fades away until only she remains.

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