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Noir: On the Floor

Feeling suddenly lighter for having escaped the gravitational pull of the bar, I wove an uncertain trajectory to the dance floor, threading my way between tables. No one gave me a second glance save a waiter who proffered a stony look, and the slick suit I recognised as Greta’s date, now sitting alone at his table with two half-eaten meals before him. He caught my eye and shot me a glance as hard and flat as a palm in the face. I passed by, grinning inwardly.

It was a slow number – the floor was full of embracing couples swaying softly to the sultry tones of the chanteuse. I felt like a scarecrow in a cornfield, an impression heightened by dancers flurrying away from me as I made my way to the stage. The alcohol combined with the slow music to mangle my perception of time – I seemed to be moving three times faster than the world around me. But the next thing I knew, the music had ended and the floor was clearing, the band having taken a break. Feeling exposed, I looked round for a suitable corner to lie low.

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