The music plays from the four speakers at the corners of the hall. Bolted and secured high on the walls, they are a first for the Cambridge Dancers' Club, replacing the old portable sound system. Before me, couples dance the graceful Foxtrot, in circles of rise and falls. From my experience, I can tell the professionals from the amateurs.
Many people come up to me and say 'hello' or 'hi'. Acquaintances. Some start a conversation with me of which I lose interest almost immediately. Friends. Two of them force me to dance with them. Not that I don't want to dance with them. I'm just not in the mood.
'Maybe it's just for the sake of being polite,' I thought as I try my best to ignore anyone I know. Eye-contact. That's the key. No eye-contact means no obligation for people to talk to me. All I want is to be alone.
When I have my moment's peace, I watch them dance. Their mistakes. Errors. Flaws. Through their mistakes, I correct my own as I run a mental video of my routine. Most of the dancers on the floor have appalling posture. It sticks up like a sore thumb. Sore thumbs in this case. Self-conscious, I check to make sure that my own posture is spotless.
It's a habit. Not that I go every week. But I always leave during the last Waltz. It's a mystery. Been a while now.
The cold air is refreshing. I make my way slowly to Clare Bridge, my favourite bridge. In the semi-darkness, the Cam is eerily beautiful. I let my thoughts run loose. I collect them. With a deep breath, I obediently head back to my room as revision beckons.
Many people come up to me and say 'hello' or 'hi'. Acquaintances. Some start a conversation with me of which I lose interest almost immediately. Friends. Two of them force me to dance with them. Not that I don't want to dance with them. I'm just not in the mood.
'Maybe it's just for the sake of being polite,' I thought as I try my best to ignore anyone I know. Eye-contact. That's the key. No eye-contact means no obligation for people to talk to me. All I want is to be alone.
When I have my moment's peace, I watch them dance. Their mistakes. Errors. Flaws. Through their mistakes, I correct my own as I run a mental video of my routine. Most of the dancers on the floor have appalling posture. It sticks up like a sore thumb. Sore thumbs in this case. Self-conscious, I check to make sure that my own posture is spotless.
It's a habit. Not that I go every week. But I always leave during the last Waltz. It's a mystery. Been a while now.
The cold air is refreshing. I make my way slowly to Clare Bridge, my favourite bridge. In the semi-darkness, the Cam is eerily beautiful. I let my thoughts run loose. I collect them. With a deep breath, I obediently head back to my room as revision beckons.
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