Billy remembered the muted shmap of bare feet on clean wooden floors, and of women breathing , and the sound of people not making any noise in particular. From first to second position, the right foot raising a parabola of dust to dance along in the sunbeam.
It was his mother’s dance studio, and he beat along on his little drums; he had good time for a kid and he got better quickly. Sometimes he would play from underneath the brown baby grand in the corner. (It took up too much space, but Billy’s mom had gotten it for free, so there you go.)
Billy would play with the piano player as the women danced and the children learned to dance.
And sometimes he would remember those early childhood days while those two geeks were getting up to whatever bullshit that is right there, and he would facepalm so hard that he broke his nose one time.