A true story, in which nothing really happens.

I don't want to go Salsa Dancing, even though I said I do, because I didn't want to sound lame, as lame as I actually am.
It is just so far out of my comfort zone. It was fun once, but wasn't once enough?
Being the tall white girl in a sea of short Mexicans, every one of which moves their hips in ways that my hips have never considered.
Feeling self consciouse because B makes fun of my dancing.
"When you dance you hold your arms like the Weinerschnitzel hot dog!"
It was a funny thing to say, and I laughed, but the whole time I was thinking,
"Do I really look like a damn hot dog when I dance?"
and I hate being out there, not knowing what I'm doing, feeling like an idiot and a hotdog all at the same time. When I think about going I feel vaguely like crying, but everyone else seems so excited, and I don't want to be the pooper, so I say yes, and remind myself that I can always hide out somewhere and wait for everyone else to get tired.
I don't want to pay 6 bucks to hide out. I don't want to feel like a hot dog either.

And what will I wear?
All my clothes suck, and so do I.
I stare at my closet in despair: nothing.
It gets so hot in there with everyone swiveling their Latin hips and the thought of jeans seems grotesque but all my skirts and dresses seem prudish and formal.
I don't want to go.
Maybe my destiny is waiting there. Maybe I'll meet someone who will change the entirety of my life.
If my destiny is waiting at studio 600 on Salsa night, then I think I'd rather just let it wait.
I think about destiny, and my stupid clothes and the butcher boy out by the dumpsters.
The shop where I work shares a dumpster with a butcher shop, which means that the dumpsters are surrounded by the permanent smell of death.
On my journey to the filthy back ally ways of the dumpster land I came across an attractive boy from the butcher shop.
I was coming from, he was going to.
We did the awkward passing dance: "Which way will I go?" and then you both adjust in unison and for a terrible second you think that you will never be able to walk past each other.
He laughed and I smiled and I went back to work feeling happier then when I had left to go to the Death Dumpsters.
Mom called and asked me to get some chicken before I came home.
"I wonder if he'll be there?" I ask myself in passing.
I walk to the butcher shop, and he is there. We exchange smiles but someone else helps me. Does he remember me? I should say something...but what?
"I saw you at the dumpster"
but then what?
I think too much and I chicken out whilst buying chicken, which is appropriate, but only God and I can really appreciate the joke.
I should have said something, just so I wouldn't be regretting it now.
Maybe I would have regretted whatever I said.
Maybe the only way this could end was in regret.
Maybe he Salsa dances. Maybe I'll see him there, and then I can say it:
"I saw you at the dumpsters."
What a dumb thing to say.
I stare into my closet. all my clothes still suck.
Why don't we go to a coffee shop. I have clothes I could wear to a coffee shop, but not dancing.
Nothing to wear dancing.
I don't want to go!
but I don't want to seem lame, as lame as I am.