Red Disco Shoes: Fantasy

[penthius]

It was time to get funky, to get down and funky, the DJ told them, his eyes sparkling against the flashing dark of the disco hall. It was time to get funky. How could they even think of leaving or just standing on the sidelines? It was time to get funky. She wanted to say that it was five hours past the time to get funky, but she couldn't. She had to breathe, after all, and that left little time or air for talking. If it weren't for the sections when they all naturally migrated around one pair of dancers doing particularly flamboyant moves, they wouldn't even have had that. "I can't keep on," she said to her partner, a young man whose fine silk shirt was plastered to his skin and dripping with sweat. "I just can't."

Inspiration: Um, a random name for a photograph that I'm cleaning up.
Story Potential: Low. So low. Limbo-contest-winner low.
Notes: Disco red shoes variant? Nah.