Dazzle.

"Sparkle for me, darling," she says, as we step out of the car.

We arrive, as usual, overdressed and very aware of it, the glow off her jewelry and my shoes bright enough to be visible in space. The heads turn, eyes wide and mouths gaped in disbelief. "Who are they?" the looks say, "and how dare they upstage us?"

This is a benefit dinner, of some sort, no doubt to pay for research into trendy-charity-of-the-month. I didn't bother to check the ticket before we entered. Appearances, you see, must be maintained at all times. It would be uncouth to be caught looking at the invite. And besides, I paid top dollar for them. . . who cares where the money is going? As long as they know it was a lot of it.

Her long, dark hair flows down her naked back, stopping just short of where the dress begins. She's already met, flirted, fucked, and left every person in the room just by entering the door; now, they all just get to bask in the afterglow. We shine, we sparkle, we dazzle. We are supernovae.

Circulation is a must, along with appearance. Walk, talk with the coterie. Discuss appropriations, mergers, business dealings in Siam. "But isn't that an outdated name?" A conspiratorial wink and grin, and a "Keeping ahead of the game, sir. There's rumbling underground, if you keep your ear there to hear," are all it takes to win over another investment jockey with too much money and not enough conscience or common sense. Morons.

I see her across the room, laughing and fondling the tie of an ex-ex-yuppie. Radiant, gorgeous. . . how can I not look? She catches me staring, and her eyes flit briefly up to the ceiling and back, then excuses herself from the grasp of the sweating and obviously infatuated conversant. I walk a circle around the room. Being seen, being noticed, making sure all the old and new money know they've been out-done, and that they know that we know.

We slowly make our way to each other, meeting in the center of the floor. I breathe into her ear, "You are brighter than the North Star, tonight and every night." She blushes slightly, the red slowly creeping up her almost bare chest and into her radiant face, "How many times have you said that, and it still gets to me?" She touches my cheek, smooth and soft, slowly outlining my jaw and chin, and whispers, "Shall we be supernovae?"

She depresses the small device in her purse and the bomb blows out the coat room, the front door area, and half the lobby. Pandemonium, fire, smoke, alarms, sirens. The sprinklers come on, and we're still standing in the center of the floor, oblivious to the noise and terror and running bodies. We're sparkling. We glow.

Three hours later, as the highway miles pass, as she discards her wig and I remove my facial prostheses, as we laugh and plan for the next day, the stars are bright in the sky. We outshine them all.