Murder on the Dance Floor

Dance is a rizz master, capable of sweeping anyone of their feet. Well, except for Curtis. In Curtis, dance met a man who was simply no simp.

Curtis distinguished himself by being extra. A fact so ably exemplified on this particular night. Few noticed as he took to the dance floor, fewer even cared. In moment's time, Curtis captivated them in a way, few ever could.

They are those with awkward co-ordination. They are those who exhaust a singular dance style to the limits of its applicability. They are those who have two left feet. Then there's Curtis, a potent mix of all three.

Where do we even start? His face hadn't yet decided to smile or smolder so it did the next best thing, vacillating between a Clint Eastwood-squint and a Joker-grin. Meanwhile, his flailing arms made a nuisance of themselves billowing in the air like they just didn't care. From afar, one would have easily mistaken him for an inflatable wind-dancer.

Curtis' hips didn't lie, they flat-out protested. Grieved at the quarantine enforced by his torso and legs, they contented themselves with jerking back and forth for the duration of their lock-down.

The rest of his body was a different kind of mutinous. A cursory glance at Curtis let slip an open secret: Not that of a boy in a man's body but a man's body unwilling to comply with the demands exacted by his boyish mind. There's a difference.

Under the pretext of dancing, this smooth criminal violated every ordinance sacred to the dancing community. Worse, he did it with a nonchalance and indifference that thumbed its nose at all things woke.

Curtis careened across the dance floor like he owned the place. The only thing more surprising is that he didn't clatter into anyone. Though anyone in close proximity wouldn't think twice about keeping a safe distance. They were lost for words looking at him, while Curtis was lost in his own world.

Curtis had no sense of discretion, no regard for public validation. He danced, little else mattered. For a club that admitted adults only, such child-like indifference was a sore miss among the many present. It had been muffled, shackled and then killed by the insidious conformity to the expectations of others and the world around them that came with growing up.

This was a man who really killed it. He didn't need alcohol, weed or some prohibited intoxicant to get his juices moving and rid him of insecurities. Insecurity had decided long ago that it wanted nothing to do with him. It really never had a choice.

A people so obsessed with how others perceived them could only watch on in silent envy. Their care-free selves had long since died by their own hand. Curtis' dancing made them yearn to resurrect it again. Indeed, a murder had been committed on the dance floor. One by the Curtis, the other by the revellers present.