Muse- Supermassive Black Hole

They strode down the sidewalk as if they were engaged in a particularly violent tango. The woman's plain khaki skirt swayed with her hips and clung to her legs, trying desperately to become a flamenco dress and nearly succeeding. Her nails dug, glossy red with substitute blood, into one sleeve of the man's perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He stared straight ahead, stride determined and arm around her waist just firm enough to hurt.

They were reenacting a primeval mythical trope, the ageless conflict of hero and Amazon, warrior man and tiger woman. All mankind was caught up in the reenactment, really, going through the harsh and graceful motions of a dance choreographed by their subconscious. But these two were the only ones on the crazed, skyscraper-lined street to be nearing the denouement of the myth, and it ruled them, surrounded them, made them magnetic. Everyone they passed wanted them. But no one had them, either of them. Not yet.