It’s 5 am, and you’ve been dancing practically nonstop since 10 pm. The air is hot, humid, and incredibly stale with 7-hour-old stench from 300 sweaty dancers. The floor is sticky from spilled beer & energy drinks. You hear Big Mama Thornton’s “Sometimes I Have a Heartache” come over the speakers and the DJ announces it’s the last song because the building’s janitors have come to start their Monday and everyone absolutely must leave after this song.

You just woke up from a 30 minute nap in a bed you created in the corner of the dance hall with someone’s sweatshirt as a pillow and ther people’s bags as a wall between you and the dance floor.

Your perfectly coiffed hair that took you a full hour to do is now a frizzy hot mess and at the same time permanently glued to your face from the unholy union of gel, hairspray, and sweat. Heaven only knows what your makeup looks like. Still, he asks you to dance because it’s the last song of the night and weekend—dancer law says that you have to dance.

Your partner, who up until now was a perfect stranger, is on his fifth and last shirt which he changed into two hours ago but by now is also dripping sweat and kinda smells. Despite this, you’ve claimed the spot next to the only fan in the room so you don’t mind so much. You’re both so tired you’re practically holding each other up and swaying back and forth instead of dancing, but somehow it’s the best dance of the night.

The song fades out, the lights come on, and now you’re wide awake and follow the crowd to the local diner for breakfast.