"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Clarice liked dances in theory. They were romantic settings by default, or at least meant to be. There were people, nice music, lots of space stuff. And space was romantic as fuck. That's why couples in films and stories were always looking at the moon.

She just always felt a little out of place. Everyone else looked so nice. Conrad looked great, in his fancy tuxedo and all that. And she was seeing a bunch of people looking all stylish and like they were actually comfortable in dresses.

Clarice's clothes weren't bad—plain sleeveless black dress that went to her knees (black worked with anything, right?) black flats, only other decoration being a naja necklace her mother had given her a couple of years ago—but she felt out of her element. She didn't really do fancy. Even 'high school dance surrounded by fake stars and spaceships' fancy.

Oh well. At least she wasn't here alone.

Clarice smiled as Conrad, being all gentlemanly and all that, offered his hand. She took it.

“Of course. Uh...” She tried to think of a word like 'eminence' but the hip-hop was throwing her off. Instead, she lapsed into giggling. “You know, when I think of tuxedos and bowing and the word 'eminence' I never really imagined it with a hip-hop soundtrack in the back. Maybe I've been reading the wrong books.”

She really had no reason to be embarrassed or awkward. The plus side of dating someone she'd known basically forever was that Conrad probably knew all of the embarrassing things she'd ever done. Nowhere to go but up.
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Tiny Vessels · At the Dance