He glides to the left; I spin to the right. He thrusts forward, I dip back. A slash to the left, a dive to the right. We dance in the abandoned street, moved not by an orchestra but by hatred. The moonlight reflects in the blades we hold, in the wet footprints we leave behind like a choreographer’s map.
There. The crescendo. He has slid too far to the right and moved forward instead of back, hoping to press dominance and cover his misstep. I reverse my grip, and pirouette. My hand with its deadly sixth finger drives into his stomach and he vaults easily over my head, a quicksilver flash.
Red puddles begin to dot the street, greedily sucking up the light the same way the water reflects it. He staggers. He drops.
I flick the knife to one side to clean it, and slide it into the sheath at my side. I take a bow.
The dance is over.
Insomniac Nightmares 
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