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Dancehall secret

August 12, 2011

When he came around, she felt her heart two-step, its quick quick, slow slow rhythm turning her in circles. She knew better than to tell him—he was more trouble than a last-call drink, and smoother than a slow country waltz.

She did the best she could to keep her eyes from him when he circled the floor with other women. She chose not to tell any of her friends, no matter how much whiskey she kicked back. She consoled herself, some nights, with the thought that a dancehall secret is better than none at all.

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