which, naturally, was rendered inaudible by the volume of the music.
“I beg your pardon?” I shouted. “I said,” he shouted, much louder than before, “how do you know Keith?”
What a bizarre question to ask a stranger. “I assisted his father when he had an accident,” I said.
I had to repeat this twice before the man understood—perhaps he had some sort of hearing impairment.
When it had finally penetrated, he looked intrigued. He lunged forward toward me with what I could only describe as a leer.
“Are you a nurse?” he said. “No,” I said, “I’m a finance administration assistant.”
He seemed to be at a bit of a loss for words after that, and I looked ceiling-ward as we jigged in order to discourage further conversation;
it was quite challenging to dance and speak at the same time.
When the song ended, I’d had enough for the time being, and felt in fairly urgent need of refreshment.
“Can I get you a drink?” the man yelled, over the top of the next song.
I wondered whether the DJ had ever considered introducing a five-minute break between records,
to allow people to go to the bar or the lavatory in peace. Perhaps I should suggest that to him later.
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