The Dancing Sardine

She wore what looked a lot like a necklace on her wrist, wound several times round to make it fit, just like the bobble her ponytail was escaping from. This wristlace arrangement was the reason for her watch, also worn on the right, being halfway up her forearm. It was a little girl's watch; a tiny face and a white plastic strap decorated with brightly-coloured flowers.
To be kind you would say her pink trainers hit the floor rhythmically as she danced. To be truthful you would say they hit the floor repeatedly. To be honest, you might say roughly. Exactly what she danced to could not be divined by the other sardines in the train vestibule, all they heard was the beat, the sounds of tinny snares and feeble cymbals being the only ones that leaked between ear and bud, and they being played pretty badly, if the unknown drummer was hoping to match the syncopations of her dance.
As some of the passengers alighted they gave commiserating looks to the others who remained, silently sympathising with those whose journey followed the same path as a bundle of energy and some thrashing limbs - and the occasional warbling vocal accompaniment to the unfortunately out-of-time drummers.
The dancer didn't care though. The beat went on, horribly out of time with the feet which went on, too, possibly in the wrong direction. The feet went on all the way to the warehouse where the pink trainers were swapped for oppressive black steelies or the office where the messy ponytail was reset into a more purposeful shape. The beat went on further, surviving the tyranny of footwear and dresscodes and silence until those few snatched minutes of time on the train. Alone, with her audience of sardines, the dancer danced again and her drummers were off the beat for every step, but she forgave them.