The Instructor does not seem interested in what lies behind him. He moves resolutely forward, but his leaking footsteps glide in a persistent backward motion that cannot be off-written as hallucination. His instruction of a thousand gilded dancers does not pause. He wraps eyes across skinny torsos and wrinkly vests and unkempt hair, but his steps go back, creeping resolutely. The motion on the balls of his feet seem to serve only the purpose of making him undulate, up and down on the same spot. His backwards progress is much more discreet. Leechy. I am sitting on a grey cushioned chair behind him. There is a mirror behind us. He had placed the chair there. He had swung it across the floor and to the mirror in a flourish and invited the investment of my meaty twin buttocks on velvet. But now his globes were in my face. I cold swell the tang of sweat and something metal. The scent was cold and pale and stale, as if it has rotted away in the cavernous cleft between his left- and right- handed twins incarnate. He was proceeding backwards. He was mashing them onto may face. They dancers were not seeing this. I do not think they were seeing this – there were no calls of alarm, no cries of frenzy, no hint that my breath had been obfuscated and that i was being thoroughly embedded and choked between the mighty and corpulent buttocks of the Instructor.