An Argument Against Dancing

Bars are where I thrive. The noise, the energy, the unpredictability of who you might meet—it’s all part of the magic. That night, I was in my element, ready for whatever the world wanted to throw at me. My weapon of choice? A wolf spirit hood.

Imagine faux fur, wolf ears, and scarf paws hanging down the sides. It was playful, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect. People couldn’t resist it—strangers stopped to talk, women ran their fingers over the fabric, and my buddy Aaron, who I’d dragged out for a night of adventure, watched in disbelief.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, shaking his head, “but whatever it is, it’s working.”

What I was doing has a name—peacocking. It’s a tactic I learned back in high school, courtesy of the cringe-worthy world of pickup artistry. Back then, I dabbled in the bullshit and even used some of it for a while before realizing how manipulative and shallow it was. It’s not a point of pride, but I’ll admit, it helped me find my authentic self. When I threw on the hood that night, it wasn’t a tactic—it was just me being me. Playful, bold, and unapologetically ridiculous.

That’s when Claire walked by.

She didn’t stop to ask about the hood. She didn’t giggle or compliment it like everyone else. Instead, she grabbed the scarf part of it and kept walking, tugging it behind her like I was a dog on a leash. I stood there for half a second, stunned, before instinct kicked in. I grabbed her hand, pulled her back, and grinned.

“Where do you think you’re taking my wolf?” I asked, matching her playful energy.

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d follow,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Claire was tall, striking, and carried herself with the kind of confidence that made the whole bar feel smaller. Within five minutes of talking, she dropped the fact that she was a law student at Queens University—because, let’s face it, law students love to tell you they’re law students. It’s like their version of a handshake. Normally, I’d roll my eyes, but Claire didn’t just announce it; she wore it like armor, and every word she spoke felt like a challenge. Could I keep up? Turns out, I could.

Aaron, meanwhile, had paired off with her roommate. Rene, his girlfriend, had given him a hall pass for the night, so he was free to enjoy himself without guilt. Her roommate, who was every bit as gorgeous as Claire, seemed genuinely interested in Aaron at first. Watching them interact, I thought the night might even get interesting for me too. Claire’s roommate had such a sure-thing vibe that I probably could’ve turned the energy into a threesome if I’d tried.

But Aaron’s lack of finesse became painfully clear within minutes. His jokes didn’t land, his attempts at charm felt awkward, and whatever spark had been there fizzled out fast. The roommate lost interest completely, leaving Aaron sulking on the sidelines. Any potential for something more evaporated, and honestly, I was too caught up with Claire to care.

Later, at another bar down the street, Claire grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. I don’t dance. Never have. But Claire didn’t care. She moved effortlessly to the rhythm, her confidence radiating, while I stood there, painfully aware of my own awkwardness.

She leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear. “You know,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “they say you can tell how a man is in bed by the way he moves on the dance floor.”

I laughed, turning to meet her gaze. “If that’s true, then I’m in trouble,” I said, pausing just long enough for the joke to land. “But I’d be happy to prove you wrong.”

Her laugh was genuine, her eyes alive with amusement. “Bold move,” she said, pulling me closer by the front of my shirt. “Let’s see if you’re as bold as you think.”

The night ended at her apartment. Aaron, now the world’s saddest third wheel, sat slumped on the couch after failing to charm her roommate. Claire and I disappeared into her bedroom, leaving him to stew. What followed was unforgettable—equal parts chemistry and connection.

Just as things were reaching their peak, there was a knock on the door.

“Aaron, go away!” I called, my voice heavy with irritation.

“Uh, Rene says she wants me home,” he mumbled from the other side of the door.

Claire groaned. I groaned louder. The mood was officially dead. We got dressed, frustration hanging in the air like a storm cloud. As I reached for my shoes, she stepped closer, hesitating for just a moment before pulling me in for a kiss.

This wasn’t the playful, teasing energy we’d been trading all night. The kiss was deliberate, soft yet intense, and full of emotions I wasn’t prepared for. In that one moment, Claire said more than words ever could. It wasn’t just desire—it felt like trust, hope, maybe even a little vulnerability. It carried more weight than anything else that night, leaving me completely unarmed.

“Can we pick this up next weekend?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Absolutely,” I replied, still feeling the lingering warmth of her lips on mine. For someone who thrived in chaotic environments, I suddenly felt completely still. In the best way possible.

When we walked in the door, Rene was sitting on the couch with the girls, laughing and holding a drink like she didn’t have a care in the world. They barely glanced up as we came in, clearly surprised to see us back so soon.

“Why did you text Aaron to come home?” I demanded, my frustration barely contained.

Rene froze mid-sip, lowering her glass to stare at me in confusion. “What? I didn’t text him. I haven’t even touched my phone tonight.”

I turned to Aaron, who immediately looked at the floor like it had all the answers. “You lied?” I asked, my voice low and sharp.

He shrugged, shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to sit there alone,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Rene raised an eyebrow, setting her drink down. “I don’t know, Aaron,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe just sit there like a grown-ass man?”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he stammered, looking everywhere but at us.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I shot back, echoing Rene’s tone. “Maybe don’t ruin the best night of my life because you couldn’t handle a little rejection?”

Rene leaned back, crossing her arms as she eyed him. “Wait, so you used me as an excuse to bail? You told him I wanted you home?”

Aaron flushed red. “I panicked, okay? It was awkward, and I thought—”

“You thought what?” I cut him off. “That sabotaging me was the answer? Aaron, you had a sure thing. That girl was throwing herself at you! And you couldn’t just take the loss like an adult—you had to drag me down with you?”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him finish. “You didn’t just fumble the ball, Aaron—you spiked it into the stands and somehow hit your own team. This wasn’t just a bad play; it was a disaster. And you made it my disaster.”

Rene shook her head, sipping her drink like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Honestly, this might be a new low, even for you.”

Aaron started to mumble something, but I raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t,” I said. “You’re done. You’re benched. Permanently. No more hall passes, no more nights out. You’re officially banned from my adventures.”

Rene snorted into her drink, nodding in agreement. “Sounds fair to me.”

Aaron slumped onto a chair, sulking as the girls went right back to laughing and drinking, their conversation picking up where it left off, like nothing had happened.

---

Claire and I texted for a few days after that, but she eventually vanished into thin air. The memory of her is as vivid today as it was that night. She reminded me of something important: thriving in a room is one thing—thriving in the moment is another. You can have all the confidence in the world, but if you don’t take the leap when the opportunity is right in front of you, you’re left with nothing but ‘what ifs.’ Moments like that don’t wait for you to catch up—they either happen, or they don’t.

She was the law student from Montford Drive, the woman who almost made me a dancer.

Almost.