The Ball

Thomas Alexander Withson is the second oldest son to the deceased Johnathan A. Withson. His uncle sent him an invitation to a formal event in Paris. Tommy read the letter as carefully as a scientist would observe his report. Then, he contacted an old friend and set foot into travelling.

EXTRACT :

I shook my head and thought this was a waste of bloody time. I could have spent my life somewhere in a place that would offer great experience. But instead of that imagination, I got a bump on the shoulder from a female person walking by.

"I apologize," the woman said. Her voice was soft and it gave an air of elegance. I looked at her face and settled on her eyes.

"Everything's okay, no worries," I said, attempting to be polite. She was accompanied by a man in a brown suit, who I assumed to be her friend. He did not look like a husband or boyfriend. Neither did he look fit for the position.

"I apologize," the woman said again, this time she sounded concerned and worried.

"Everything's okay," I replied.

Her eyes were covered by a dark velvet-purplish masquerade mask that matched the color of her gown all together. Her dress was the color of black and purple. I took a quick glance and that was all I got. I did not want to pay attention to an outfit, but rather to the person herself. She gulped hesitatingly before her lips formed a welcoming and gentle smile.

She tilted her head slightly to the side. "You don't look familiar," she said.

I glanced across at the man who remained unmoving from his position like a Secret Service detail. He was bulk enough to be considered a tough guy. He looked to be in his early thirties. There was a mustache above his thin lips and it was shaped like a boat upside down. I averted my attention back to the woman and took a small step forward.

"Hey," the man said. "Back away, pal. Don't be too close."

The crowds were still active in the background. I moved slightly further and kept a neutral expression.