Past midnight. Empty streets. From an ill lit doorway a sound. A woman. Shadow. A scent. Drawn into one. Smoke and synthesizer music swirls. Bionda E Lupo. Crossing the threshold, tripping into twilight. Analogue emotion, styles twirled like garlands. Nervous shuffles and the touch of fingertips. Weaving, bodies twirl as morning shoulders into night. The realisation. The edge of eyes. Curl of lip. The click of heels with creak of floor. Feeling flows, ebbs, cascades and floods. Lipstick and heavy perfume. Two forms swimming in currents, bending to one another in the warm glow of aging speakers. Breath and pulse quicken. Electricity spiked with passion. The final embrace. Whispered promises. A kiss.