Dance, dance, dance.

I'm sitting in the Starbucks on Phinney, killing time until my weekly writers' group starts. There is an old man -- somewhere between seventy and ninety; I can't tell -- waiting at the bar for his drink. He's dancing. Hands in pockets of black parka, head up, black-and-red Adidas, spectacles with gold rims. This is not a shuffling sort of dance. He's really moving. Purpose and complete confidence. I don't know a thing about dance so I can't identify the steps, but he knows them just fine.

I ought to learn something about dance.