It’s the colour of her lips, drawn up in a smirk. Her dress as it whirls around her on the wooden floor, her head tilted back to stare at you, unblinkingly.
It’s in the glare of the spotlights following her and her partner across the dancefloor, hueing her skin.
It’s in her nails, her pale hand drawn up at her mouth, whispering snide comments about the sweaty, pudgy man with a glass of champagne, slurring at the ladies standing at the edge of the dance floor.
In her barbed laugh as she stares down another lady, black hair tumbling down her back.
Her handbag as she picks it up and walks out. It’s in the ribbons and balloons and streamers flowing from the rafters and walls.
In her hat as she dips it low over her sparkling eyes; that smirk driving you crazy.
It’s in the neon signs, hypnotising you as you walk down the alley after her.
It’s on your knife, glinting in the same lights. It’s on her dress, spreading darker across her chest.
It’s on her hat as she falls to the ground, a hand fluttering at the wound.
It’s on her lips, fallen open in shock and horror and… finality.
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