Dancing in D.C.

We’re on the second floor of a crowded bar in Washington, D.C. A disco ball twirls on the ceiling; multicolored lights bounce off of it, spinning over the twenty-somethings that pack the room. Skyler moved here two months ago. We’re visiting her for the weekend. We dance in a circle, arms around one another as ABBA plays, Miller Lites in hand. Nearly a year after graduation, we’re all making money, but have yet to outgrow buying the cheapest drink at the bar.

The circle mimics hundreds that came before it, from the living room of the West Philly townhouse we once shared to European youth hostels on our summer backpacking trip. We flex the familiar muscle, one amassed during a time when none of us needed a train ticket to dance in the same room.