She revolves the revolving door closed. Smiles happily as the darkness, womb-like, engulfs her. Couching her in watered-down red light. As she starts taking the film out to develop it, her iPod sounds the familiar starting chords of River of Dreams. "In the middle of the night..." with its inevitable rhythm fills every corner of her head. As she feeds the film to the developing solution her toes start tapping. Irresistibly, as she dips the film in the fixer, she's nodding her head in time with Billy. While she waits for the film to dry, an impromptu little dance breaks out. Involuntary, like a rash. "In the middle of the night", Billy finishes up all too soon in grandly circular style. She regretfully gathers up the this-and-that she came in with and turns to leave, slightly breathless. The white-coated, bespectacled, white-bearded Russian professor from the neighboring lab stands just inside the door, washed a faint pink, looking at her. She (fortunately?) can't see his expression. His glasses glint meaningfully, though. "When did he come in?", she wonders, a little embarrassed, flushed cheeks flushing a shade brighter. Then with a toss of her hair, she walks past, revolving herself out. He can't possibly be startled.
"How can anyone *not* dance in a dark room?"
Less Dark Room Adventures