Dollhouse
His stiff frame concealed in a blue satin ball gown, Sadol twirls across the dance floor, a cape of glitter tulle billowing in his wake. He steps on the beat, skirt pinched in either hand so the hem doesn’t drag. When his usual attire consists of swimming trunks and an ill-fitting beach bum tee not seen new since the days of Sejong the Great, who knows if he’ll get the privilege of wearing this gown again.
Black feathers extend from the sides of his mask, obscuring his peripheral vision. No matter. The mask’s eye holes are large enough for him to catch glimpses of the decor as he whirls. Fairy lights drape the walls, casting an amber glow. Garlands of dried roses accentuated with lavender twigs and eucalyptus leaves scent the air. Baroque sofas of black lacquered wood and pink velvet frame the salon. A few bodies spin about with him, although most pose on the sofas, some at awkward angles.
The waltz ends. The string quartet packs up and leaves, soon to be replaced by another crew, a jazz band, maybe, or a tropical ensemble. On nights like tonight, musicians will follow musicians until everyone is ushered home.
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He hops to the bar at the back of the room. The bartender waits with her arm extended over the countertop, offering a glass he can wrap his fingers around. He takes it, bows, and hops to his favourite stand on the wall. From here, he’s free to watch as guests flit in and out, some losing themselves in gossip and laughter and drinks, while others venture onto the dance floor.
His eyes survey all, but his heart seeks only one.
A jazz trio mounts the stage, and as they prepare their places and tune their instruments, the grand doors burst open and all heads lift as one.
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