Calamity has struck, red wine spilt by serpents mouth. An unhinged jaw sucks the energy out of the room, and cancerous call-outs spike the air. Collection of coats hurried while whispers of previous nightmare like affairs flood the hall.

A tall brunette, a short black dress. She likes to dance, and people love to watch. An event turned party to everyone’s delight. The infinite bar fuels the DJ’s set. He capitalises on her energy: fifty, five-star reviews gained at brunch. Stiff lips loosen as she screams, It’s her song; you know the one?

A beat that makes her kick off her heels. Freedom to steal the spotlight. Hair held up as she moved around the dance floor. People follow and start to dance in unison; old and young alike enjoy her energy. The crowd jump to match her level, yet she floats above them. A disco ball that no one can reach. A black tied socialite starts to flirt from the bar; he likes how she moves. Her attention caught, she eyes the stool to his left. A bit out of breath, sweat drips off her forehead. At the bar and party border, he offers her a drink.

Iced rum sipped and held to her head. A smile flashed, his demeanour relaxed.
“Thanks, I need this,”
“Happy to help, you move well.” she holds out her hand when he replies,
“I’m Angela, you?” He takes her hand and bends to kiss it.
“Travis?” is yelled from behind him. A short, ginger woman in a fabulous silver sequence dress. Face as red as the wine she holds.

He spins on the spot and starts to explain. She turns her back and walks to the bar. Placing his drink next to hers, he stands and pleads. The explanation turns into an argument. A full glass of wine poured over his head—the bar empties.

Our black-dressed dancer finishes her rum and retreats to the dance floor. She catches the rhythm. DJ fights for the crowd, enraged screams from unhappy lovers dominates the battle. People apologise as they leave. Embarrassed, the ginger lady lashes out. She shouts curses through a waterfall of tears at the passers-by. Her partner has taken a taxi. Security called, they escorts her out.

Hair down, she dances alone now. The DJ blasts her favourite songs. The end of her play-list fades into happy birthday. A group of service staff roll out a cake.
“I’ve been looking forward to the cake,” she says, smiling towards the worried faces. She wipes a finger through the icing and eats it,
“I can’t take this all home with me; please help yourselves .”