Half of her face was covered by a velvet eyemask and the obsidian material gathers around her eyes, creating an almost vignette of her irises, the eyes were borderless. Limitless. And their color was impossibly beautiful – a chestnut brown with flashes of amber. Upon looking at her, I wanted to expose my soul to her, yet I remained silent.
I have searched my life for a love like this. I have courted other women, and even when they lay themselves bare, vulnerable for me, I could not make myself care about their secrets. This woman I had laid eyes upon her for less than a breath, and I wanted to know everything. I would surrender my artifices if it meant discovering who was beneath the mask.
I studied her. Though it was a masquerade, I felt she had hidden more of herself than most. All the other women of the soiree had vanished. They had become background noise, a faint droning hum in my ear, but she, without uttering a word, had captivated me. I was a slave to her. If she had bid me untie the laces of my corset, I would have. If she had demanded I reveal all my secrets, and unfold my autobiography like a wax-sealed and hand-folded letter, I would have.
Not a word was uttered, and she was my beloved.