You stood in the middle of the dance floor like a fencepost in a wheat field. Smiling bodies swayed and held onto one another as you denied their movements. With the hood of your rain jacket pulled up tight over your head it was hard to make out your face. I saw it masked by a damp sheen. As we’d circle around you in a bastardized, beer-sloppy waltz, I did my best to make sense of your situation. On our third revolution a strobe light flashed, giving a clear view: you were crying. Your tears moved in line with the sweat that poured down your face. I understood completely. This DJ was terrible.