She did not walk in the room as much as she drifted in, the way drapes do when the wind comes in through a North facing window. Short dark hair with a hundred silver butterfly hair clips, bright blue eyes that sparkled like the glitter on her cheeks and her shoulders. The light bounced off her like noon day sun off chrome.

She wore a sheath dress-metalic-the color of the inside of an oyster shell. As she moved toward the bar, the crowd parted and she illuminated the space they left.

She had a single flute of wine in one hand leaving the other arm, a neon blue bracelet slid down to the elbow, spinning in half circles to keep time with the music.

Somewhere that evening there must have been a power outage.

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