Each year, my husband and I attend a ball for carnival. It’s a lovely affair with drinks, dancing, pageantry, tradition, and a late night breakfast buffet. We meet our friends. I ogle the men who look dashing in their white ties and tuxedos with tails. There’s a reason so many women would swoon over Mr. Darcy. The women are resplendent in their gowns reaching to the floor. I’ve not written a story about two people meeting at a ball, but I know I soon will. The atmosphere crackles with possibility and romance.
I’ve not chosen my dress or my shoes for this year. I have a mere week. I best get to shopping, something I don’t like to do. For this event, though, the time spent under the horrid lights of shops and in the cramped dressing rooms is worth the aggravation. I get to feel beautiful, special, and inspired. Maybe this will be the year that I pen a story about a Mardi Gras ball.