There's two people dancing. It's four in the morning and I'm waiting for the bus at Howe and Robson and there's two people dancing; down in the UBC centre beside that skating rink, they are dancing. It's four in the morning and those morning birds that never stop chirping soon are chirping overtop some sort of hip-hop, inter-mixing with it. It's four in the morning and I'm writing, standing by a railing under a tree, watching these people dance and listening to the birds. From the busstop someone stares at me - wondering what I'm doing. He can't see the dancers. Maybe it's a performance and I can't see the audience. They're good, like the people you see on television. This is passion
A security guard is walking towards me. "Hey, hey whoah", he says and the light shines in my direction before he turns down the staircase. I worry he'll stop the dancers but they finished already, as I was looking away. One pulls on a lime green hoodie and they sit on a bench, relaxing, reflecting. They're about to leave, and I am too - five more minutes for the bus. They must do this often, the security guard didn't glance twice, didn't even acknowledge them. Yes, they must do this every night, an underground dance-off in the heart of the city.
