A waltz…

Graceful.
Flowing.
Two bodies, moving, spinning, propelled by an elegant thrust.

Eyes: Locked. Searching.
Hands: Enclenched. Communicating. Whet.
Breath: Heaving. Cavities and orifices flaring and ruffling with every single “Oom-pah-pah Oom-pah-pah In-two-three, out-two-three.”

A waltz is more than a dance.

It is an encounter. A private, intimate, intercourse between two souls that no-one can upon spy. The consequences of this fleeting union can be enormous. A waltz has potential to change lives, even the course of the world.

Hyperbole? Ha. No such thing. Not here.

For Hubert and Clarissa, Hubert and Clarissa Porter, first met during a waltz. They fell in love during a waltz. Their fates were sealed the moment they began to intertwirl to the very waltz you listen upon today.

(A Shift in rhythm.

Weston moves quickly through the crowd?)

Imagine it is a hundred and fifty five years ago. And we are all members of “society.” And here we are at the annual Vice Governors Ball, one of the final events of a particularly humid social season.

“Oh hello. Hello. Hello there, you, hubbub hubbub hubbub” we mutter half heartedly to the lackluster hodge podge of well heeled, self absorbed corpses we have grown so tired of seeing party after party.
(Aside to a party guest, personal)
At least the punch is strong enough to help tolerate this soul-murdering ritual…Right? Am I Right?

Desperation fogs the air. Always has at the Vice Governor’s Ball, one of the last chances to secure a breeding partner before the leaves turn. The prissy little shits who’ve found mates earlier in the season flaunt their so-called “love” mercilessly on the dance floor, leaving those untethered souls desperate for any form of companionship moping about the perimeter.
(internal)
The best things always seem to happen to the least deserving. How sad we are. How sad to be alone, no one to waltz with, for yet another winter…