Transversals

XXIV. 20/20

The ballroom was beautiful.

It emanated a 20's, Gatsby vibe to it. Treble heavy jazz echoed within the walls, the stomping of feet reverberated within the floorboards, surrounding the laughs and the chatter and clinks.

The dim light reflecting between the thousands of crystals dangling from the ceiling gave the room a warm evening glow, like champagne versus something as Technicolor as golden honey. No, it was certainly champagne: lighthearted and bubbly, effervescent, but suggesting an intimate evening party all the same.

The tall panels of ornate Victorian gold paisley wallpaper were separated by rich, espresso-colored wood, as if the strong drink's aroma was mulling around our ankles. At the back there was a bar, liquor bottles pulling from a certain color palette definable across any time period.

Dozens of torch-like lights periodically hung from the wall, further illuminating the whisperers that stood along the edge of the dance floor. They were people who weren't eager to join, but had a certain sense of mystery that was attractive anyway. Women with delicate hands in white gloves, men with cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

The light brown wooden dance floor was for the ambitious, so pristine it looked like it was begging to be stomped, tapped, and jumped upon. That was where wide-eyed young girls with feathers in their hair swung their dresses around, dancing with guys who could barely keep up. The guys were throwing their straw hats away to pursue the next lady of the night, flushed and drunk and zealous.

All the while, the pianist, the drummer, the bassist, the trumpeter, the saxophonist, and the trombonist stood on the corner stage in pressed penguin suits. They tapped their feet and closed their eyes, beats and chords and groove of each tune running through their veins.

I stood from one of the back tables and finally noticed the darker dress I was wearing, in the sea of golds and reds and white. It was a true ball gown, with a sweetheart neckline, strapless, vertical black and white stripes on the bodice decorated with black lace at the waist and top. Sheer black tulle covered the skirt, covering more black and white vertical Beetlejuice stripes and fading into more lace. I felt my blue hair pulled into a elegant, curled updo. Looking back to the table, my eyes fell upon a mirror sitting on the edge. I took it cautiously. But lo and behold, my reflection was present and in some kickass winged eyeliner and red lips, might I add.

I glanced around again and took a few cautious steps towards the center. I was at an empty table, but all the others were full of men and women laughing and talking. They wore masks, and suddenly I found a black lace one in my hand. I smiled and laughed to myself. I really liked masquerades.

I walked slowly throughout the crowd. No one threw me a glance, which I didn't mind. Actually, I was quite puzzled. I stuck out in black, but across the pulsing dancefloor holding a sea of girls in party dresses and guys with white shirts and untied bow ties, another person stuck out.

He sat at the bar and leaned back casually, still with his well-fitting black suit jacket on and bowtie aligned, dress shirt pristine. A simple black mask was over his eyes, matte and suave, dark hair slicked back like Alex Turner. He caught my eye and my breath hitched a moment at the attractive and illustrious mystery that began to surround him as he winked and made for the door, tugging on his suit collar.

I set my mask down on a random table and weaved through, following him to the door, picking up my dress and jogging a few steps in heels before setting a hand on his arm and turning him around. He faced me and smiled, expensive cologne lingering in the small space between us. I gasped and pulled back at the sight of his dark, navy eyes. "Ben?" I asked.