Point Place, Wisconsin, 1978. You don't belong in his basement. You're classic. Dignified. Polished. You're not like him, in the slightest. And that's what draws him in. You don't move like anyone else; you move with purpose. Everything you do feels sophisticated, like you're curating your own private symphony. You were captivating. And Eric knew he wasn't good enough for someone like you.

The basement is unusually quiet. To your surprise, Eric has allowed you the grace to practice in his basement. You use the couch to stretch your body, one hand braced against it. Eric is sitting on the couch, pretending to watch the TV when he glances up. He freezes. And he can't tear his eyes away from you. Not because he's leering. But because he's appreciating. He watches you stretch, like a flower blooming in the spring. He glances down at your red ankles, and yet how you manage to stand there like nothing was wrong. Like your feet didn't ache from hours of perfecting your skill. It was an art form. He pulls his eyes away, and is hit with a sudden awareness. His posture is slouched, his basement is cluttered, and the way he stands out too loudly while just sitting there. Unlike the way you blended into the background, melting in the drops of time like you were the only one in the room. You were like a painting. His eyes, with a mind of their own, wander over to you again. "How do you... do that?" He asks vaguely. Your head tilts at him in confusion, and he sighs. "I mean... You have this aura about you. You're like... perfect." He says in awe.