September 11 - Masquerade
The room is glorious, glittering, silvery and sparkling; the very picture of extravagant wealth spent on sheer luxury. Enormous crystal and gold chandeliers dance overhead, the smallest of drafts causing a cascade of reflection and refraction, hanging from an enormous roof embellished with arching white beams. I dance a waltz beneath them, resplendent in a black tie tuxedo, black domino mask covering my eyes. The waltz is simple, and the steps come to both me and my partner easily. She is similarly resplendent, a pale blue dress hugging her curves and accenting her eyes, her mask much the same shade.
Among the crowd, there’s a particular man. He’s dressed in a deep red tuxedo, dark enough to pass for black, but when the light catches it just right it’s as though he’s been dipped in blood. He flits and drifts between the dancing pairs with no real regard for the ebb and flow of the music, though nobody seems much to care. I steal glances towards him whenever I turn my partner away from me, and I notice that he seems to be looking straight back at me.
As the music hits a brief lull, I say to my partner “Excuse me, I need to go refresh myself for just a moment,” whereupon she nods and our waltz breaks apart. I stall for a moment, aimlessly wandering the crowd, making sure she can’t see me, before the man in red emerges in front of me.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says to me, plainly.
“Well that much is clear. What do you need from me?”
He hesitates before responding, “A dance for now. From there, we’ll simply have to see how the evening goes.”
Such a statement would normally be accompanied with tones of flirtation, desire. But in this case, his voice is filled with dread and defeat, anxiety for some unknown cause.