Not Good at This, Still Going

There was a song I couldn't find the tempo in —

four-four, I think, but my feet

kept landing on their own terms,

off by a half-step, then a full one,

then whatever you call it when you stop

trying to find the beat

and just move.

The room was above a bar.

String lights someone had looped twice

around the ceiling. Marcus was worse than me —

his arms doing something completely

unrelated to his legs —

and he was laughing with his whole face,

not the party laugh, the real one,

the one that takes your whole jaw.

I laughed too.

We were terrible.

The song changed and we kept going,

and for about four minutes

I wasn't carrying anything.

Not the month before. Not the one before that.

Just elbows, just the bass coming up

through the floorboards, just Marcus

pointing at my feet like they were doing

something criminal —

which they were.

The song ended.

We stood there catching our breath.

He said something and I didn't catch it

over the next song starting.