Equal parts testosterone and hostility roll off the pair in stormy waves. They circle, their movements practiced, yet fluid. Random, yet reciprocating. Their steps soon fall into steady rhythm. A macabre pattern. A most garish dance; as intricate as any confined between the walls of a dance studio, as intimate as any hidden by the walls of as bedroom.
The music, it is not one of airy strings and soaring crescendo. It lacks the earthy haunting woodwind, the soul gripping melody. No. Their soundtrack is one of steady percussion. Their qualms. Fears. Hesitations. Humanity. They fade with each successive pound of bass.
There is no space for emotion in this lethal, primal beat. No room for anything but instinct. Yet their eyes betray faint hints of admiration. Even fainter hints of love.
Their pace quickens their movements but mere blurs. Then, the song is interrupted, their illusion broken.
The culprit: a single jarring, staccato note. And then another accompanied a flash of silver. The sound is strikingly artificial. Cold. Brutal. Fatal.
They slump simultaneously; their final bows.
Their breaths have become shallow, errant; a stark contrast from the disciplined rhythm of before. They manifest themselves as fragile clouds, intertwining in the air above them, then fading into oblivion.
And so closes the curtain on this pair of twisted lovers. And so ends their final dance.