The dance is hypnotic; just when Sweeney thinks he's got the pattern, something explosive happens and renews his fascination. For all the swirling and lifting, his eyes remain locked on her. There might have been guilt that they had not taken the time for it last night, but when she is hoisted in the arms of another woman, when hints of her pale skin is exposed, and their bosom are pressed to each other on the way down, he can't find enough will to regret. He might not have survived the thing without having her.

As it is, he can start to feel how the sight affects him; how the drum compels his blood down, and the way her lips curl breathily only urges it into his prick. Sweeney shifts slightly in his seat, pressing his elbow into the arm of the chair as his fingers start to tighten on the cap.

It would be a lie to say there was not a flicker of worry when the translator approaches; he knew he'd be stuck dancing. But then he's not, he is just granted more understanding, and for that, he's grateful. It does prompt the question, and he leans in to whisper it in hopes of not being distracting. He can't stop staring at her though.

"Will she come ta me?"