A boy in a hooded sweatshirt tips back his generic energy drink, then pauses under the illuminated sign for a dance studio. In the window, a display of streamers and course times surround a TV showing a video of woefully amateur couples in a ballroom dancing class. The duos step woodenly in wrong directions. Their eyes turn away from their partners to plead with their toes, to search for a space on the wall and count invisible numbers. The instructor walks between the hapless pairs, often leaping out of their way. No music is heard, only evening traffic. The boy stares at the screen without smirking. The dancers continue to crash.
The boy snaps to attention as a group of tipsy tourists approach. He finishes his beverage, shifts his feet wider apart, his shoulders down, his attention to the sidewalk. When the people pass, laughing and leaning into each other, the boy moves away from the yellow glow of the sign. He continues on his way, taking light and careful steps for an almost unnoticeable moment before picking up his pace.