I'm sure the loud conversation of the two old drunk guys in camo, the yeller and his quieter friend, is going to be the greatest barrier to a peaceful commute this evening. Then the kid walks up.
Music plays on his phone, no headphones, only loud enough for me to hear, and he proceeds to rehearse a dance routine, twisting his hips and ghosting through spins, hat catches, pole twirls, and flips to the quiet click and spit of the repetitive electronic soundtrack.
To my dawning horror, I realize that I am the recipient of and sole witness to this guy doing Showtime, and I begin to wonder if I am the center of the universe.
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