It felt nice, to swap the boxers with this sequinned black dress, with upper body lace, revealing the perfect amount of skin.
It felt nice, to swap the daily beer bottles with glasses of vine of older times.
It felt nice, to swap the bathroom slippers with black pumps which I last wore three tears ago, at my sisters’ wedding.
It felt nice, to look at all these new faces who pretend to care, but don’t.
It felt nice, to wear this mask separating myself from the woman I really am, a widower.
This white mask, attached to its’ sides are tiny feathers of black with a pearl at the end and it is covered with sequins all around, like it was meant for an archangel to wear.
Black lace dress, showing my cleavage,under which I wore a black garter and black bra, with black plain pumps, and this white mask.
Standing afar, at the other end of the ball room, this handsome stranger catches my eye.
He notices me and walks up to me, taking my gloved hand he asks me “Care to dance ?” and my feet give the answer my lips couldn’t formulate.
He keeps one hand on my *** and one on my tiny back, I lean into him and on the tunes of Bach, we sway.
Just as the clock hits twelve, my Cinderella time gets over, time to be the widow and remove the mask I so willingly wore, just for one escape.
Escape from being a widower to being a single lady at Masquerade ball.