My shoulders flick, my arm twitches, foot taps, now my leg is moving, both legs in fact—and my whole body is following suit—swinging and swaying, headphones are in or the speaker is blaring, John on vocals—“wait, oh yes, wait a minute, Mr. Postman”—George on lead guitar, Paul backing and laying down heavy bass lines, Ringo slashing at the drum: “Mr. Postman, look and see, see if there’s a letter there for me”—and now I’m in full dance, leaning and hopping, doing the lawnmower, the ice skater, the hot coals, inventing new moves, absolutely owning the moment, slaughtering the moment, absolutely beating it to death, there’s never been another dance moment like this—“you gotta wait a minute, oh yeah, wait a minute, oh yeah”—and then it’s over and I’m done and I’m moving on, as if nothing happened, no one knows, but I know and it did happen, it definitely happened, a joyful moment, a moveable feast: every second a gift.