The Dance
A Drabble by Bex

Do I dance with Death?

Sometimes. Sometimes I take her out, dressed to the nines, and we paint the town red. Other times, we merely exchange knowing glances from across a crowded room.

But always I feel her presence, lurking there at my left shoulder.

One gets used to it, over the centuries. One learns to work under pressure, knowing She's waiting expectantly. Never impatiently. She has all the time in the universe.

And, over the years, one learns how to lose gracefully. After all, you can't win all the time, and--

All right, all right. I'm lying.

I cheat.