Cigar smoke sits still above the centre scene of a palatial ballroom. A Russian attempt to Italian deco – still too much gold plating, and the mother of pearl embedded in the pink marble floor is excessive. Penguin suits and long trains with gorgeous women for locomotives gather around in tightly knitted circles – a conversational archipelago where some feign interest in the moments’ charlatan.
The cigar smokes twirls; an air vacuum occurs. She’s arrived. She coasts into the nave of the gala – apparently alone. It’s the first time in years she attends one of her events – her endearing nickname has become ‘The Invisible Host’.
She stops, looks around, the train of her cobalt-black dress glides down the steps. She remains there, a smile fixed on her face in dire contrast to her darting eyes. Left-right-left-blink-blink. Something’s wrong, a force invisible to mere humans envelopes her.
It’s at this very moment, that I saw her sweep lingering on the last step, the selvedge hidden under a robust, onyx, leather shoe. She had enough material to move away, enough strength to pull from under him, enough support to not be intimidated, enough knowledge to understand all mentioned points, and yet, there she stood, frozen.
This is for FOWC with Fandango: Shadow