There is a man watching from across the room. He is sixty and a day. He struts over rather cockily. Makes a beeline for me. Of course. This is my week. He moves his hips to the music. Because he is white, his whole body goes with them. He flays his arms. And violently jerks his head. I watch his mouth. I am looking for foam. But no. It smiles. This is a mating dance. Mercy!