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The nightclub was busy, hot and humid with bodies heaving in the blacklight glow of the dancefloor. Around the edges of the room, groups of people clustered in the dark, drinks on the tables in front of them, leaning over to each other for shouted conversations. Others queued up at the bar, three deep and waving notes at the flustered bar staff.

She walked in late, too late to get the early entry discount on the door. She tossed her black hair back over her shoulder and ran her hands down her pvc dress, smoothing out the wrinkles that had appeared as she ascended the stairs.

A familiar beat echoed through the room, the opening chords to her favourite song. She smiled and stood at the edge of the dancefloor, watching people rush to the dancefloor as others (tired, thirsty, or just lacking in taste) trickled away, back to their tables, back to the bar. She watched them move to the music, hands in the air, feet pounding, hips swaying.

Once upon a time, she would have joined them. She would have been there, the centre of attention, one of the best dancers. Back then, when she danced, she could feel people’s eyes on her, almost tangible, a thrilling feeling that she would have given an arm and a leg to feel once more.

With a sigh, she turned away from the dancefloor and made her way to one of the darkened tables. She didn’t dance any more. She would never dance again. She wouldn’t make a fool of herself, prancing about with no coordination, no rhythm. She would probably fall over.

The problem was one of soul. Without it, dancing is simply flailing about with music in the background. That’s why she didn’t dance any more. That’s why vampires don’t dance.

© Kari Fay