Of course, the plan was to go home by midnight. Not that I should be going out on a Sunday at all, but.
I had something that could easily evolve into a full-blown sinusitis, but that would be cut out in two days. I had such a pain in my knee I could hardly walk, but that would fade once I was properly warmed up (only to attack again on the way home). Most dangerous of all, I was heartbroken, and therefore in desperate need of those few minutes of bliss where there is only music and movement and nothing else.
So out I went to find it. The Brussels salsa scene is one of the only things that compensate me for the shitty climate of this place (the other beign the endless strawberry season), but that night started all too slow. By the time someone first asked me to dance, I finished my welcome drink and was halfway through another one, and it only got worse. It had been a long time I’d drank anything more then a glass of wine, but this time I had enough to feel it in my muscles – first in my face, then my arms, my legs; I had enough to almost have a crying fit, though I did convince myself to wait until I got home. I definitely drank enough not to check the time, which went unnoticed as I danced and danced more, forgetting everything but my partners’ lead and the music flowing though me. I stayed until the music changed from salsa/bachata to regueton and latin disco and whatnot, then back again, twice –
and by that time I was so tired I could not follow my own steps, much less someone else’s –
and I was tired enough to lose my filters and show my middle finger to the guy who did not stop at offering me a ride home (“if only I wasn’t by bike”) but told me what else he’d like to do –
and I was more than tired enough not to have that crying fit I wanted, so I guess I reached my goal for the night.
I got home at 2.30AM.