Rush puts his hand on Penny’s wrist to lead her away. She holds her arms out to the
side, a posture making it impossible to touch any other part of her. They move half a dozen feet
away to find wiggle room as the band launches into something fast -- no reason, then, for the
dancers to touch or even look at one another. Rush pumps his torso like the graceless frat boy
he is. I pretend I'm not watching and shoot furtive glances at the disconnected partners, still
boiling. When the three minutes of sloppy rock are over, Rush nods and says something to
Penny, and she gives him a stiff smile, then comes back to reclaim me.
“He can’t dance,” she whispers in my ear, with a giggle.
I grab Penny’s hand and lead us out of the hall and straight back to my dorm room.
Nothing happened when other-sider Joe Rush got his dance with my 'pretty lady.' Nothing real-
world consequential has happened at all, but I'm still swallowing bile. Slimy Joe Rush proved
he could get his way. My resistance was futile, naive. And somehow, I fear, predictive.
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