In front of the screen, the men danced feverishly. They seemed to fight, seemed to cluster together. Before you knew what that competition was all about, or even whether the story you were concocting was the real story, the screen had disappeared and the dance had changed.
G-Bowley approached Goldman. She stood stolidly in place wearing a black lampshade skirt, like some kind of goddess, more Aztec than Native American. He inched up to her on his knees, clutched at the skirt. Finally he got it off her and stood with it crumpled in his arms as she backed away. I'd long since stopped hoping for enlightenment.
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