Dancing With Glitter in Your Hair by Cycy Smith

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Across a crowded room once many years ago I watched you dancing. You were wearing a long white skirt and there was glitter in your hair. I loved you from that moment on.

From the very start I couldn't take my eyes off you. If you were in the room it felt to me as though every light in the place was focused on your slim figure, glinting off your black hair. When you went out the room would get a little darker, the other people a little more boring. I had obligations, responsibilities; a fiancée and a baby on the way. Nothing mattered. The moment I saw you I was lost. Even if we had never gone to bed together I would already have cheated because when it came to you I felt like a single man looking at the girl he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

That first evening I crossed the room and plucked a single sparkling square of glitter from your shoulder. Your friend obviously thought I was some kind of pervert but your eyes met mine and you saw right through my bullshit, into my very soul. I didn't say a word. I couldn't remember how my brain was supposed to relate to my tongue to form sentences, witty conversation, anything that might make you want to spend time with me. It didn't matter; you already knew it all anyway. I know now that my silence was the first thing you liked about me, beautiful girls are used to hearing slick lines from losers at parties, silence is more unusual. You smiled at me and I did the only thing I could think of; I reached out and replaced the piece of glitter in your hair.

There was pain and heartbreak to follow. We both already had lives, friends, partners, homes, all of which we had to extricate ourselves from. A meeting of eyes is not enough to leave all of these things and start again together, so there were secret meetings and secret sex and later tears and desperation, both ours and my fiancée's. It wasn't fair to her, she was an amazing woman and I had loved her well. But after five minutes with you she was like a tiny flickering candle placed next to a huge bonfire, she couldn't even compare.

Her friends, and mine, and I suspect yours, thought I was an arsehole, a bastard, a cheating scumbag. They were right of course; I was all of these things. But love is selfish; it has no room for morals or niceties. There was no space in my mind for anything but you and I, and she suffered as a result. And the baby of course, the baby suffered most of all. When she told me about the abortion I surfaced for the first time from my obsession with you to take stock of the damage we had done. My child, my son or daughter, would never see daylight, never laugh, never cry, never love. Yes I paid a heavy price for my love of you.

Still we survived the wreckage and moved in together. And thus started the best and worst years of my life. We were obsessed with each other, as we had been from the beginning, and anyone who had expected our complete infatuation with one another to die down was soon proved wrong. We were best friends, passionate lovers but equally passionate quarrellers.

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