He was dancing. His denim whispered in hush tones, leg to leg, as his massive thighs chafed against one another. The laminate flooring groaned with each jete and sighed with the saute.

He eyed the small TV, noting every accent and twisting to each subtle bounce of the reality television dancers. The most graceful part of the obscene spectacle was the way he kept his eyes glued to the TV as he spun, his overgrown stomach jiggling as he swiveled.

Roger sat hidden on the top stair. Sensible, young and hilariously enthralled by the sight, nothing pleased Roger more than seeing the fat boy sneak glimpses of himself in the faded mirror.

Actually, it was day to day. It’d been sad then funny then sad again. Like the dance itself, Roger’s empathy swung to some invisible rhythm.

Today, Roger knew there was only one way to end this. He dialed the number flashing on the screen.

“Hi, I’d like to sign a friend up for Dancing Idol auditions. Well, he’s either a genius or the crown jewel in your losers’ reel.”