Merrymakers at the party break into spontaneous dance.
Shall we dance
On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?
They begin with a particularly vivacious polka. At the head of line dancers is Miss Weather, traipsing in hop-step-close-step to the lively bohemian dance. She soars and dips at the same instant, seemingly weightless.
She then begins to combine slow steps and quick steps. Slow, slow, quick, quick to a rather fast but very smooth foxtrot. She is light on her feet, her dress flowing around her ankles. She is spinning through the crowd like a brilliant flame. Others join her, swooping around the dance floor in a quick and graceful two-step: hands joined together, first pointed toward the ceiling, than toward the floor.
As the tempo slows down into a graceful waltz, partners cling to each other in the intimacy of an embrace.
Will you please do me the honor? Quaking Aspen proffers a hand to Crimson Maple. He leads her gently to the dance floor. They glide through as though they exist only in the clinging circle they have made, parting the other dancers like water.
Presently, the music segues into a raucous latin beat. Everyone begins to rhumba happily, laughing and shaking their bodies. Then, in catchy jitterbug steps, the revelers begin swinging and rock and rolling.
The quick and energetic boogie-woogie follows. Party celebrants are shimmying. To the next tune, they emulate the Moon Walk, backward, on tiptoe.
Thereafter, some break into a Bollywood routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking from the audience to join them in their gyrations. The music begins to reach its crescendo. People spin around until the floor seems to threaten to come away from their feet.
The sensual and energetic salsa movement becomes a show-stopper next, only to be challenged by singing, guitar-playing, and hand claps that accompany the magical and passionate flamenco.
Then, mambo time. Ooh, let's mambo, Wild Cherry hisses to Golden Pomegranate in a fierce whisper. Excuse us, won't you? The couple astonish fellow dancers with flirtatious, sensual rock and side steps, kicking and flicking their feet, and shaking their hips.
They scurry off, though, as Dogwood gives a warning. Move away, please. He's leading a conga line around the room, twitching like he's got fleas.
Crowded onto the dance floor, everyone gyrates, sways, and frolics with abandon into the wee hours of the October sky. Revelers are whisked on the dance floor to be twirled. And promenaded. And dipped. And spun.
One, two, three, and...
One, two, three, and...
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