He bounced from foot to foot, hoofing towards the edge of the small wooden stage as the band bounded their way through a spirited rag. His eyes searched the crowd, caught yours, and a big crooked grin spread across his face. He reached a huge hand down for yours, gently engulfing it, and helped pull you up to the old stage. You instantly felt as if you had crossed over some imperceptible, inexplicable threshhold, bombarded with the sulphurous glow from the globe lights trimming the proscenium arch, drunk from the smells of old varnish and dusty velvet. The percussion thudded in the wood beneath your feet, resonated through your bones. The allure of this was undeniable, and when he began to sweep you around the stage, imparting to you a grace you never knew you possessed, you were utterly consumed by this place--bound to it and to him.