“Do you know those old washing machine agitators that moved the clothes around?” I ask him dryly. “Why the hell are you asking me about washing machines?” “Because that’s what she’s doing right now. Moving like one of those agitators…without the rhythm.” He goes quiet, possibly trying to picture that for himself. “Why?” he finally asks. “I think she’s dancing,” I answer unsurely as she starts flailing her arms and singing along with the music.
