Seven minutes after midnight, somewhere on Earth.

Lee looked at Guin, freshly-returned from her big band tour of the mother planet.

Only one way to celebrate.

They danced.

Pas de deux.

Party of two.

Vines of sight and sound growing, curling, growling, party for one.

A light touch, no pulling, inviting, attracting, hidden algorithms of muscle cells and neurotransmitters, billions of years of experimentation, trial-and-error elimination.

Willing to give all, no secrets, to the song of the dance.

Puffins and Pushkin, Malaysia and aphasia, stone castles and fo’c’s’le.

Jack and Jill, deny and d’hill.

Conflicts of interested parties.

D’programming, detaching.

D’tachometer.

D’landing gear.

Dillinger’s daring deranged derringer, dead ringer for Daedalus’ DaDa black sheep.

Then, complete silence…no words.

Pure physicality of the dance speaks for itself once more but never just once once again.