In a small, round room, on a dark but unremarkable night, polished shoes made polished sounds on the polished floor as a couple danced the night away.

There was no music. There was no conversation. There was no light save what little filtered through the windows from the stars. All there was was dancing and crying and holding each other tightly.

He stroked her bushy brown hair, she leaned her head against his chest, and they danced as if there were no tomorrow.

Because, to them, there wasn't. After tonight they would never see each other again, and right now neither seemed to be able to find a point in living without the other.

The sorrow of this parting did not seem sweet. It would be like having a knife stabbed in your heart, and living with it in your chest for the rest of your life. The thought of this made them angry, and the pace of their feet on the floor quickened, increasing rapidly in momentum until they found themselves up against the wall, lost in savage passion.

Then the melancholy hit them, and they slowed again, reluctantly dancing towards the bleak future.

The flow of their steps moved slowly towards stagnation as the night wore away.

When dawn finally came, they stopped moving altogether.

For a moment they just stood there, unwilling to accept that this dreadful moment had finally come. Then they kissed, a kiss burning with sorrow and pain, and looked into each others' eyes one last time before turning around and walking in opposite directions.

They did not look back. The only evidence of their meeting were the two cloaks lying tangled and forgotten at the side of the room.

One red. One green.

Both forever on opposite, hopelessly different sides of the spectrum.