There was too much lust in the air. The atmosphere was tense and charged up and Shirley didn't like it. She smoothed down her little black dress in an effort to calm her nerves. Wannabes. Too many wannabes, she thought as she made her way to the balcony. She welcomed the soft breeze against her skin, tugging at the hem of her skirt.
"Imagine seeing you here," a wry voice said from behind her.
"Fancy that," she said, not turning to greet him.
"What, no nice words for an old flame?"
"What do you want? A kiss?" she shrugged his hands off her shoulders.
"Are you still angry?"
"What do you think?"
"Look, Shirley, I've apologised."
"That's not enough."
"What do you want me to do? Change you back? You know that's impossible. Besides, I thought that's what every girl wanted - to never grow old."
"I am old, Charles. I feel it in every cell, even if I don't look it."
"You don't look a day over twenty-five."
"I know," she finally turned to look at him. "Neither do you. Nice tux. So standard."
"What difference does a year make after hundreds of them?"
"It's all about the details." He smiled, that classic smile that had made her fall in love all those years ago. He took her hands in his and she didn't pull away this time.
"Do we have to do this every time?" he asked.
"Doesn't it ever get old? This has only been the hundredth time in two hundred years."
"Maybe if we met more often..."
"Without the cover of soirees like these?"
"Not much cover here," she said, looking back into the house full of young, dressed-up people.
"It's touching, how much they try to be like us," he said as he put an arm around her shoulder and steered her back into the house. "And how wrong they are," he added.
"I like the sparkling bit. I wish you would do that for me some time."
He rolled his eyes. "Why don't you try it first?"
They walked through the sea of teenagers and looked for an empty room.
There was too much blood in the air.