Dancing with a Stranger at the Masquerade

“I never stood a chance, did I?” he said, sweeping the hair from my face.

I smiled into his palm, kissing the rough calloused surface. His hand told me the story of his life. It wasn’t easy. He’d never had anything given to him. He’d worked for everything he ever had. And I wondered if he would work for me.

“You still do,” I said. “You don’t even know who I am.”

“I didn’t,” he protested with a laugh. “And I do.”

He reached up and brought the mask down from his face, revealing it. I gasped, recognizing the man I’d been dancing with all night as though he was a stranger.

He wasn’t a stranger at all.

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