Daphne dances.
She doesn’t like it, strictly.
There’s something wrong with this DJ.
She can’t put her finger on the problem, exactly. He seems to have the genres set appropriately and in balance. He’s nice in that he weaves in the artsy stuff without clearing the dance floor. A glitch in the drum and bass. He can’t seem to keep his decades straight, but in this case, it’s a good thing. The club is performing well, too. Too much fog seems like a cheap stage effect; here it just curls around the feet, almost invisible, an illusion of incense since the club went smoke free. The lights aren’t strobes; they don’t beat down on you, but they do sear with the kind of intensity typically reserved for a desert sun. She is certainly sweating enough to feel like the night was worthwhile, but something is wrong here. Something doesn’t quite add up. Something is lodged in the back of her brain. There is something wrong with this DJ.
Is it the Ray-Ban sunglasses that look like he fished them up off the floor after some hipster stepped on them?
Is it the corduroy pants that don’t really go with his plaid shirt (which looks way to hot, for real).
Or maybe it’s the third arm that extends from the middle of his chest and helps him spin the vinyl.