Page 197 of Knotting the Firefighters
~WENDOLYN~
The world narrows to rhythm and movement—heartbeat syncing with bass that pounds through massive speakers, body flowing through choreographed steps with fluidity that feels instinctive rather than learned.
Line dancing.
Actually,line dancing.
In cowboy boots and a vintage dress at a small-town Montana competition.
My feet move with precision despite alcohol buzzing pleasantly through my system—heel-toe patterns executed flawlessly, spins timed perfectly with musical transitions, the particular grace that emerges when technique becomes muscle memory rather than conscious effort.
The white vintage dress I'd selected swirls with each turn—a 1950s circle skirt that's absolutely impractical for athletic activity but looks spectacular when spinning. The fabric catches light from overhead fixtures, creating movement that draws eyes even in a crowded space.
Borrowed from my own collection.
Finally wearing my actual aesthetic rather than borrowed athletic wear.
Feeling like myself rather than the convenient version others prefer.
The cowboy boots were a last-minute purchase—genuine leather with subtle tooling, broken in just enough to prevent blisters without being worn out. They provide stability on a polished wood floor, allowing pivots and slides that would be impossible in regular shoes.
Country aesthetic.
Embracing the full Montana cowboy experience.
When in Rome, dress like the locals.
Calder swings past on my right—his movements sharp and controlled, natural dominance evident in the way he commands space even in a choreographed formation. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms, entire presentation screaming "cowboy who knows exactly what he's doing."
Confidence.
Pure confidence in his element.
This is where he shines.
Aidric appears on my left—matching Calder's energy with his own particular style, movements more fluid than aggressive, leadership evident in the way others unconsciously follow his timing. His expression carries focus mixed with genuine enjoyment, a rare sight of him actually relaxed and engaged.
He's having fun.
Genuine fun.
Not performing for the audience or maintaining an image, but actually enjoying himself.
Somehow—through alcohol and instinct and the particular magic of music—the three of us have synchronized perfectly. Our movements mirror and complement, creating visual harmonythat's apparently drawing attention based on the way crowd reactions intensify when we execute complex sequences.
We're matched.
Perfectly matched in rhythm and timing.
Chemistry translating from personal to performance context.
But I'm barely aware of observers—too lost in the pure joy of movement, in the pleasure of physical competence, in the freedom of not caring what anyone thinks because I'm too busy having the best time of my life.
This is fun.
Pure, uncomplicated fun.
When was the last time I just had fun?
