Or clamps, butterfly clamps. The music is stuck. It's one of those old phonographs with a heavy arm that must be lifted into place on another record. But I don't want to go over and change it and there is no one to hand her off to anyway. Her toes are becoming wrinkled from being in the water.
People take pictures of dance.
She smiles desperately ahead, the face of a woman who hopes no one is waving ten dollar bills behind her back. Not all kinds of movement. Or of dancers. We have been on the phone for almost half an hour and I cannot turn the music off or get her to switch steps, not even when I go to a different set of foot marks. All drop into the shiny undulation and sink, quickly, almost as if pulled down.