I remember arriving at a disco club before opening. Looking out over a freshly buffed black lacquer floor is like looking out over a lake frozen over at night in January: the corners of the room awash in light, gleaming as bright as frothy sea-foam captured by moonlight and frozen mid-spume. I remember leaving the disco club after closing. The floor scuffed by thousands of delicate movements, patent-leather boots and supple Italian loafers, the pure black marred with white semicircles like a fresh and uncut pan of fudge, midnight black scumbled to dark chocolate brown by whatever particles the whirling dancers brought in with them: cocaine and dirt, dogshit and spilled wine, the parts of their lives left behind through the release of the dance. Contrast in mind's eye with the smooth shine of the racquetball court, even similar in length and width, the walls white and pristine, the tan hardwood floor under sealant like a desert rendered to glass by an atom bomb. The community of the dance floor. The isolation of the enclosed court. The feeling of belonging to both.