She yearned to go dancing. Not the kind of dancing most men would think, but the kind of dancing where you mostly get to jump and fling your hair and scream. The kind of dancing where you shove your fellow dancers and bond by bruising your shoulders. The kind of dancing where you're sweaty and your clothes come loose and your makeup runs and you need to drink, but you don't notice because you're freaking dancing.
Dee couldn't think of a way to tell him, and her insides did a slow burn that dimmed and dimmed, but never quite went out.
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