The Art Of Sneezing

Hour 9

Hour nine: Pond thinks he can dance (Together, we equal four left feet)

"Hey, I just met you and this is crazy but-"

I cover my ears and press next on the Pandora radio station. Pond exclaims in protest. "Ugh, I hate that song," I mention as the next song starts.

We hear the beat at the same moment and jump up from our mini fort.

"BECAUSE YOU KNOW I'M ALL ABOUT THAT BASS, 'BOUT THAT BASS. NO TREBLE!"
I jump and start club dancing to the song. Sometime earlier, we found Christmas lights in a closet down stairs - I think that was during our game of hide and seek. Anyway, we've hung 20 strands of all colors around the living room, making is glow nicely in the dark. I'm dancing like I'm in a club and Pond joins in.

We're both kind of super drunk so our movements are very clumsy, but my moves aren't too bad. I think. I open my eyes from my wobble move and catch sight of Pond twerking.

Well, trying to twerk. Instead of his butt moving, he's seems to be shrugging his shoulders like he is having a seisure.

Dear Lord, we suck.

The song fades out and Cruise by Florida Georgia Line comes on.

"Oooooooh, Mouse! Dance with me! I know how to waltz."

I take in his drunk and swaying self while I sway also. "I don't think s-" I begin, but Tom yanks me forward. My nose collides with his surprisingly muscular chest. Ouch. When I bring my hand up to my injured nose, Tom grabs it before setting us into a tango-like pose.

"Uh . . ." I trail of as Pond steps roughly on my foot.

"Shit. Move your foot backwards." I do as he mutters, but he takes a giant step backwards and our arms tangle painfully. "No. To the side."

I sway and step to the same side he does and end up standing on his foot.

"Owwwww." He whines. "Here," he shakily picks me up and rests my toes on his feet.

He begins to move and for a moment I actually believe his proclamation of his ability to dance. Alas, that claim is taken away when he kicks his own leg and tumbles onto the floor.

However, he lands softly seeing as he has landed on me.

"Ooooooooow," I moan. "You have four left feet."

"Noooo, I have two left feet and you have two left feet."

"As a wolf you have a total of four. Four left feet."

"You're a wolf, too. We have eight left feet."

"This math makes my head hurt."

"You're a wolf. Technically, you have two heads."

I pause in the process of attempting to push him off. "So, we each have six left feet?"

". . . Shit. Thirteen left feet."

"Sounds right."