left feet

You don't believe me when I tell you that I have two left feet. The sign of a good friend, I suppose: always encouraging. You're teaching me how to dance. You have to put your hand lower, on the small of my back, and be firm, you instruct. But I'm not a firm man, and I'm not now, letting you, instead, get away from me as we trip around the dance floor. You tell me: You're the guy, so you're supposed to lead. We both giggle at this, knowing full well that I'm not a leader, and I'm not going to be one now. Instead we fumble around, bumping into other, much more serious, couples. There are rules, you say, that have to be followed while dancing. A smirk. Looking around, it's easy to believe that we're the only ones having fun.