Every night she dressed up. She was a girl about town. Gowns in every colour and material imaginable: hues of eggplant, butterscotch, cantaloupe and rosewood, constructed out of satin, velvet, chiffon and the occasional denim. She danced every night in a hall, filled with people, as if no one was watching. An ever spinning display of colour beneath the glittering chandeliers hanging from the French Baroque ceiling. Unlike the others, she didn’t need a partner. She never had. She didn’t need one for status, paying the bills, holding her groceries or dancing.
She needed someone when she got home. Anyone. The overly extravagant dresses were her disguise. When she peeled off the silk, she peeled off the glamour of the night and the skin belonging to someone else far away that she had stepped into temporarily. Every day – at whatever lewd hour she had returned home – the mask was removed, leaving only her sitting on the carpeted floor.