by Pauline Masurel

"Come doon y'daft wee hinnie and dance with me!" He brandishes the rose at her but she just beams serenely back from a lofty position. Her silvery-blue skirts shine bright against the expectation of the night while he shakes off his donkey jacket and slips fleetly across the car park, smooching the frost-spangled silence in the crook of his arm. One of these nights she will though. You can see it in the way she gazes longingly down across the dented snow. She'd love to dance, really she would. And after a sniff or two of whisky he's the only man alive who knows her secret. "Don't be shy lassie," he croons, "I'll nae tell."

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