Clara was waiting. Her long ginger tresses were carefully coifed in the fashion of antebellum ladies of the South. Tiny ringlets bounced over her elegant, porcelain shoulders. She shifted the shawl to cover her bare shoulders, and pulled at the fabric of the scarlet dress. It was a poor attempt at covering the large amounts of cleavage her corset had pushed to the surface.
Her giant hoop skirt was cumbersome but pretty. Every few minutes she lifted up the hoops to gaze at the lace pantaloons and tiny black shoes. She felt a bit naughty standing in the parlor before her mother’s antique looking glass, gazing at this Clara from another time. A lady of the South would never bare her ankles to anyone but her husband, and certainly not in the front parlor of her parent’s house.
Yet, even in her state of costumed bliss, Clara could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. James was over an hour late and God only knew what kind of horrible trashy costume he would have come up with. And he had promised her a party to remember. If she had known he would be so late, she would have gone with her parents, but it was too late now. She remembered how James had wanted this to be her best birthday ever.
“Can’t believe your birthday is on Halloween,” James had cocked his head of curly black hair at her, “You should come out with me C.”
He was so lazy he couldn’t even use her full name. Clara had started to tire of him. But she had lost her virginity to James when she was sixteen, and old habits die hard.
“Okay, James” she had glowered at him from beneath her thick lashes, “But it had better be good.”
She couldn’t seem to get comfortable, the hoops prevented her from sitting down, and the corset kept her back straight. She walked over to the settee and mused over the proper way to sit down, when the doorbell cut through the terrible silence.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” Clara mumbled.
Her skirts swooshed about her, and her curls bounced as she bounded towards the door. She squinted out onto the porch at the masked man before her. Could it be James?
“Trick or Treat,” the deep voice greeted her as she swung the door inwards, the light from the house spilling out onto the porch. “Why, Clara, you look ravishing.”
“James,” she placed her hands on her hips, her waist so thin, and her body waspy from the ministrations of the corset. “You’re late.”
“Perhaps so, dear lady.” Clara rolled her eyes at his attempts at cuteness. She ushered him inside, and gave him a thorough once over: simple Tuxedo, white mask coming over his eyes and caressing one cheek, but not the other. It was very Phantom of the Opera.
“Listen,” she started, “I think we should take my Dad’s car, because this dress isn’t going to work in your little mustang.”
He stood seemingly transfixed. Clara found herself reflecting on her boyfriend’s height. He seemed a good five inches taller than the last time she had seen him. She shrugged and chalked it up to the tuxedo and larger than life persona that James had tried to assume.
“Okay then, I’ll go get the keys.” Clara turned to go, but felt the silk of the white glove on her shoulder. She brushed his hand from her shoulder; it was icy cold beneath her fingers.
