When you* are tasked with steering the auditory ship of a renowned Soul'sa [sic] dance night in one of the city's preferred nightclubs, an expectation from the Big Guys Upstairs might include unwavering focus on what is happening on stage, rather than occupants of the dance f. Among the nervous first-timers, red-light-fever DJs and dyed-in-the-wool pros are a middle aged couple with a dearth of distinguishing features. Every week, I can't take my eyes off them. They do this thing where they pretend to meet for the first time, but perform the ritual with precision punctuality every Thursday. Following the quick-onset flirtatiousness is subsummation into the ocean of salsa dilettantes. To tease out this tenuous analogy further, those with conspicuously well-coordinated hips are the Mesoplodon Traversii of this sea. Were one to bear witness to the spectacle, I'm confident in one's agreement in adjudging it to be dry-humping with Latin American influences.

*Never really you.