The Masquarade

“I despise people,” I said.

“Glad you’re here,” replied Charles, my favorite acquaintance. My gaze lifted from the town car floor to meet azurite eyes peering through a purple glitter mask. 

“You look ridiculous,” I told him. “And, the mask only covers a small portion of your freckles.”

“You look great,” Charles responded.

My mask was red with a feathered ring from my hairline, down around my temples, and to the tip of my nose. I had been convinced by Charles to accompany him to the Artists of Chicago Masquerade Ball. He wore his nicest tuxedo; I wore his number two. 

The town car pulled up to the curb outside the Arlene Francisco Center. I popped out the door and admired the thirty-foot columns erupting from the entry steps. Guests swarmed the sidewalk in front of me. Tuxedos and dresses, laughter and screeches, masks—the night was crisp.

On my right, Charles was socializing with an older man and a younger woman. I broke away before any potential introductions and approached the doorman. He wore an orange mask and a wire connecting from his jacket pocket into his ear, and he stood in front of two giant red doors stamped on the beige clay wall surrounding. 

“The password,” he muttered, leaning into my chest in secrecy.

“Fire,” I announced.

The doorman cracked the door two feet open. I smirked as I slipped in. The room opened into a proper ball venue. On the right was the bar, on the left was a gallery, and above was a chandelier the size of a smart car, beneath which danced six dozen guests, all wearing masks with a combined value of at least $100,000. I headed to the bar.

Waiting for a chance to order, the bartender was flipping bottles like a clown with bowling pins. Each flourish would prompt a cheer and guffaw from the crowd.

“Are you not impressed?” asked the girl on my left. I looked down at her. Her mask was matte black with rhinestones peppered like stars. And, with my view of her cleavage, she must have been 5’2”. 

“I might enjoy his tricks if he poured me a drink,” I said.

Her smile was punctuated by closed lips and four dimples. She managed to encourage my apathy and preserve her awe. 

“Bartender,” I said as he finished the drink.

“What’ll you have, sir?”

“Screwdriver, no OJ.”

“Roger,” said the bartender. He pulled out a pint glass and filled it halfway with house vodka, never flipping a bottle, and set it on the mahogany in front of me. I grabbed my drink and turned to the girl.

“I’ll be over there,” I said, pointing at a bench on the wall. I walked away before she could respond. 

I sat down on the bench and watched the event. On the far wall, I saw Charles, mingling with a flamboyance of four women. It was clear that he was interested in the second one from the right.

“You’re a loner,” said the girl with the black mask as she sat down beside me.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Scotch on the rocks.” She answered with pride. I wasn’t sure yet how to break her.

“What’s your thing?” I asked.

“My thing?”

“The thing that makes me curious about you.”

“That’s my gallery,” she said, pointing across the room.

“I didn’t ask you to point me in the direction of your thing,” I said. “Tell me what it is.”

“Well, what’s your thing?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes, buying time to invent something captivating. Scanning the room and my mind, I decided to open the book on myself. I drank two gulps of my glass.

“I’m suffering a break up.” I continued, “I caught her cheating, not that I never did, but that’s not something I can tolerate. I have more self-respect than her. Although, now I’m drifting between shame and trauma. And, not in the mood to see a bartender twirl my liquor.”

“Wow,” she said. “Why shame?”

“That’s a question for my shrink.”

“Well, I can listen.”

I slid toward her six inches until our hips touched. She leaned over my shoulder in anticipation. 

“I hate myself for it.”

“Because you weren’t enough?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why?”

“Because I wasn’t the one to do it.”

“To do what?”

“To blow it up. I want to hurt her. I never hurt her.” 

“But you said you cheated too.” She squinted at me, cleaning her front teeth with her tongue.

“She always forgave me. I was always exonerated. As long as there was still space in her heart for me, I didn’t really hurt her.” I paused for a breath. “I never got to do anything unforgivable.”

“That’s so twisted,” she said with a smile.

“That’s my thing right now,” I said.

“I like it.”

“So, what’s your thing?” I asked

She sat back and scanned the room. I took a sip of my drink. I watched Charles step off the dance-floor and into the art gallery. He stopped at a piece that, from across the room, looked like a woman on her wedding day. A red bouquet of flowers clutched to the chest of the bride’s wedding gown.

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” she said. “I sell cocaine. And, not because I need the money. I do it because it’s fun.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I told you, just for fun.”

“Do better.”

“I guess it’s because I’m bored with my daily life,” she said.

“No, do better.”

“That’s it. It’s for excitement.”

I turned to her and took off my mask. She looked into my eyes like she hadn’t yet. 

“Take off your mask,” I ordered.

“What?”

“Take it off,” I repeated.

She took off her mask to reveal herself. Her skin was paper. Under her eyes, dark circles sucked into her face. We stared at each other for a moment. She spoke when she was ready.

“It’s something about the little fiends when they come to buy,” she said with a grin. “The pungent despair.”

“You pity them,” I said. “Hate them even.” 

“I don’t hate them,” she put her hand on my chest. “I own them.”