“You know,” said Sonja, the thick Persian accent dripping from her lips like too much DiSaronno in too small a glass, “dancing can be very therapeutic.”

And Sonja could be very persuasive, particularly with her eyes half-lowered and catlike, and her ample décolletage aimed at me like a rifle.

“Dancing… to this?” I asked her. “How would that be therapeutic at all?”

Christian wound up “Don’t Worry Be Happy” and launched into his next number with all the flair and energy of your average funeral procession.

Sonja leaned further forward and smiled at me. “Trust me,” she said.

My throat burned from the whiskey. My senses swam from the lights. This happy music with a sad vibe thing was driving me bonkers. “Wait a second… is that… ‘Walking on Sunshine?’” I asked. “In a minor key?”

Sonja stood up laughing and uncoiled her arm toward me like it was a snake. I was charmed. Or was I buzzed? This alcohol thing agreed with me, and Sonja beckoned. I felt like chasing both of those antagonizing serpents.