We dance for one song, then Sebastián comes along and extends his hand to me. After a couple of songs, everyone manages themselves into a big circle where we follow Sebastián’s gyrating moves. A couple of girls take the centre of the ring, too. One drops into a perfect split. We in the circle all hold hands, swinging our arms back and forth, making the circle bigger and smaller. Every now and then someone shouts at me, asking me where I’m from, how long I’m staying here, can I speak insert-language-here, and I can’t respond fast enough before opening my eyes and realizing they’re gone. It’s okay; tonight, I’m not here to make friends. Hell, I can’t make friends. We’ll only end up breaking each other’s hearts when it’s time for me to leave. Regardless, I smile back at people who may or may not be trying to strike up conversations, dance circles around everyone, around speakers and tables laden with food. I don’t stop dancing between swigs of sangria, snatches of conversation with the Zozo crew, and handfuls of nachos. I am fluid. This is my weekly stress reliever. It’s a secret I wish I had discovered years ago, long before last fall, long before Zozo, maybe even before I toyed with the idea of teaching overseas. All this time I just needed to fucking relax. Keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Never stand still. Never stop long enough to think about where I’ll flow next. No way in hell am I going back to two months ago. Waking up in my bathtub, nightmares for days … Nope. Not letting that happen again.

“You’re good!” I feel stubble against my neck. “And I like your hair!” The same salaryman who bought us sangria makes a gesture with his hands, like he’s rubbing shampoo into his fauxhawk. “Your hair! Cute!”

“Thanks!” I smile. “I like your hair, too! Very hip!”

He falls in step in with me, trying to keep in time with the beat without getting too close to me. He isn’t half bad, and it looks like he’s trying not to be a creep. It’s too dark to see his face, but from what I can tell from the fuchsia strobe lighting, he’s a bit older than I am. Still, I’ll feel better keeping this conversation short and banal so I don’t run out of breath. “Your English is really good!” I tell him.

“Aw, I don’t know about that!”

“Wow. See? That right there proves it’s good! Your accent, too! You’ve studied or lived abroad, haven’t you?”

The young man nodded. “America!”

“California?”

“Yeah! How’d you guess?”

“I have a student who grew up in Los Angeles; she sounds exactly like you!” So much for the short conversation plan; now I want to know more about this guy.