BLONDE, SLIM and with bambi blue eyes,
frail shoulders covered by a white cardigan, with a sweet little mouth, now formed in a perfect O, as part of a lost look to match my own, we rushed together, embracing.
We'd only met a day before but were overjoyed to find each other, as only two trancers on the other side of an elevated evening with no prospect of sleep anytime soon could be.
Now we were a duet.
"Ha-hah!" I cried with new found (make that cute girl found) enthusiasm. "Cassy! Wicked. Where have you been?"
"Ah - I'm not . . . The tran-trance zone."
She was all exquisite crystal as she met my gaze, her irises consumed by black holes. I felt the X stop, seize. It wanted to don shining armour and mount a white charger, to assail into the very heart of them. To backstroke through them. I felt a surge of energy, a bushfire bright running before the wind, a deep-seated swell that -
(At least not yet.)
"You look cold,” I offered. “Were you at the Trance Zone?"
“Uh-huh. I was dancing and I lost everyone. I turned and nobody was there."
Her pupils widened further, if that was possible. She looked spooked and I longed to hug her - maybe I should confess my love? - but restrained myself.
"Well you've got me now. Want to head to the Food Tent and warm up?"
(Warm . . . in the Indigo glow.)
We found the Food Tent and a spot at the back beside the barista, and there we sat and stayed. We sipped multiple coffees; we babbled and murmured; we were tender; we were entangled; and we enjoyed the old school set of rap being spun.
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