Enraged, I leap the tracks in a single bound and lunge for her, but Darcy Bethany just backflips up the wall, and, balancing on the gutter, taunts me in arabesque.
I curse the air with a flurry of battement glissé. I stammer impotently in échappé.
Darcy Bethany just bounces away on the top of lampposts, hands folded behind her back, mocking me in a wordless sing-song.
“La la fucking la!” I scream. “Come down here and dance like a man!”
Her pretty, placid face is a perfect V-sign.
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