Dance with Ravi.

You’re chatting casually with Ravi, pestering him about where he could have possibly picked up woodland animal pheromones, when he turns toward the band on the dais like a said woodland animal might turn toward a sudden, unexpected sound. “Oh, I love this song!” He grabs your arm and pulls you into a jog toward where people are dancing.

“Whoa!” you cry. “Hey!” But you go along with him, partially because his slender-fingered grip is surprisingly iron and unbreakable. You get to the dais at last and he twirls you around, catching you before you can trip over yourself.

The song is upbeat and lively, lute-driven, with vocals by a frontman who spins the words like one might a limerick. It’s a catchy tune, but you can hardly focus on it for how Ravi is dancing, pulling you into spins and twirls and swinging you in half-circles that make your head go a little fuzzy. It’s a relentless dance, but you match, keeping your footing correct, following his lead. He makes it easy for you -- pushes his hips in ways that elicit natural responses. He’s delighted at the dance, at the music. Every time your eyes meet, he’s grinning with the warmth of a sun, bright-eyed and joyful, without a care in the world. He laughs as he twirls and catches you, as -- when the song begins to close -- he bends you down and backward so that your hair nearly brushes the floor.

He holds you there a moment -- as the song plays out -- and grins deviously. “Well aren’t you flexible?”

“Alright,” you say, face warming, and after a slight widening of his smile, he pulls you straight up again.