Five
My Revolving (Ex-)Boyfriend

It was last minute on a Friday night when Kris called me up to invite me out on a date. Dancing, he said. I readily agreed, more than willing to spend the night jiving with my beau instead of flipping through channels on the couch, and hurried off to get ready for the occasion.

Do they even have dances for adults? I wondered as I threw on a pink dress and floofed my hair up in the mirror. I couldn't recall hearing of a single dance since I graduated high school forever ago. Maybe there were dances for senior citizens. Had Kris invited me on a date to a retirement home? Was that acceptable boyfriend behavior?

To tell the truth, I didn't even know he liked dancing. I sure as hell didn't, but dancing together was what normal couples did when they were in love, so of course I was going to give it a shot.

When Kris showed up decked out in a black button-up with a leopard-print collar and slicked-back hair, it should have raised a few red flags. I should have suspected something. But I didn't even question his wardrobe as I happily linked arms with him and we traveled to the venue. I didn't even stop to wonder until we arrived—and hopped into the very back of the line at a prestigious nightclub I had only heard about in urban legends.

After a wait that felt like all night (just like the ones you see in Hollywood movies), we finally made it through the front doors. I clung tightly to Kris's arm as we pushed and shoved our way onto the raving dance floor, my eyes glued to the girls bumping and grinding and spilling frilly drinks all over the floor in cheap, sequined tube dresses and other skimpy attire. I gulped and peeked down at my own dress, realizing I was so wrongly dressed for the occasion.

I was wearing ballet flats for Christ's sake.

Kris pulled me close to him as a bass-heavy dubstep remix of a Taylor Swift song began booming deafeningly throughout the building. Commence my pitiful attempts at dancing. I tried to mimic the girls around me, who seemed to effortlessly move and sway in emotional synchronicity with the music.

Not me. I just couldn't do it. Every time I moved a muscle, I smacked right into Kris from every fathomable direction. I moved my arm, I slapped him in the chest. I moved my leg, I knocked him in the knees. The whole time, he just stood there, bobbing up and down in rhythm with Swift's whiny, groaning vocals.

And when he suddenly stepped on my foot, leaving a red-hot brand in the shape of the sole of his shoe (a Gucci logo), I decided enough was enough.

I was going to the bar for a drink.

If I was going to enjoy dancing, it would only be plastered out of my mind. Romance could wait for the after-party.