Flash. Click. Racing between parties. Three more to go.
She squeezed into a banana-yellow afro batik dress.
His retro sunglasses sitting on his nose. Holding his feather wand. Mr. Magnin light his cigarette. She responds with a flamboyant, hip-thrusting pose. Curtain unfurled.
They dialed 160. Quiet spots. Whispers on the line. Four of them grooving in a red phone box.