It is dark in the club. The lights are those horrible ultraviolet ones, so even though I have worn black, I am glowing like a Christmas tree. I don’t think my jumper is actually made of wool anymore. It appears to have switched places with all the lint from the tumble dryer. It is on an exchange trip. And the lint is doing its best to be a jumper, and to be fair, it had me fooled for a good few hours, but it is not having a good time under the ultraviolet lights. It is entering a state of distress. It wants to go home.
Ivan is exactly the opposite. Ivan has become the Dance King all of a sudden. He is kicking his legs out at all angles and really going for it. He is having the time of his life. Probably. He hasn’t said as such, but I don’t think he has to. I think his grin speaks for itself. All I can do is watch him. He isn’t even that drunk. But the more I smile, the more elaborate the routine gets. He starts to do this thing where he slaps his hip, and with every slap, he does a weird jump, still grinning at me.
My jumper starts shaking uncontrollably, making it seem to onlookers like I am joining in, albeit in a toned down manner. I feel like Flavor Flav in the video for 911, but upright. And without the clock.
This encourages Ivan to dance harder, which in turn makes me and my jumper laugh even more. I beg him to stop, but he doesn’t. I think I am going to die.
I don’t die, but I tell him I need to go outside and breathe for a bit. He nods and follows me out into the night.