They called the event Masquer-aid. It was sickeningly marketable. A party for a cause. Instead of masks that went around the eyes, everyone was required to wear standard face masks that would be modified in a similar style to the normal fashion of a masquerade ball, to stand out and be dazzling. Pandemic precautions were taken before this evenings event. Everyone was required to self quarantine for three weeks beforehand. A concierge doctor was also sent to all guests homes the day prior, in order to administer testing. I have never been to a ball before. I wouldn't even be invited to this one if it weren't for my job. I am to report back to my paper about all the grand and wonderful things that the Fiori's are doing to help the community by throwing this gala. I roll my eyes at the thought. I am glad that people who need it will be helped through this event, however the insincerity of it all still bothers me. They only seem to be doing this to mitigate the backlash from their partygoing children. To show that they care about the struggles that the pandemic is causing. The night air is chill, part of me begins to regret that I didn't choose a dress with long sleeves, until the moment that I pass through the main arched entryway. Warmth envelopes me, the warm light of the building, the warmth of laughter and conversation, the faint sounds of merry string instruments drifting from further inside. I feel taken aback, I had forgotten how wonderful it could feel to actually be around people that were having a good time. The guilt hits me straight after, like a blow to the stomach. I had just been thinking about how unnecessary this all is, and here I am excited by it? The hypocrisy of my own thoughts baffle me sometimes. I hand my invitation to the man by the entry and he motions for me to enter "Miss Vera Langston." The man announces loudly as I enter the main hall. People turn to look at me and I feel myself shrinking on the inside. How do people feel that they have so much importance that their very entry into a room warrants this kind of attention? I avoid all eye contact and begin descending the stairs to the main floor. At the bottom, a man standing to the side holds out some hand sanitiser. I lift my hands, letting him squeeze the gel onto each of my palms. Then I begin the practiced routine of rubbing between my fingers, over the backs of my hands, up over my wrists. Even this hand sanitiser isn't normal, I note, it is scented somehow, almost floral. Smells like wealth. I pause for a moment, allowing myself to take in the grandeur of the scene before me. Large columns stretch from the floor to the ceiling. Arching between is intricately detailed stained glass, light reflecting into them on the exact right angles to make them give off an almost magical glow. On the inside of the pillars there are two steps that lead down to a large dancefloor. And on the outside are all of the tables, the seating spaced apart meticulously. On the dancefloor itself there is a subtle grid, presumably one and a half meters apart. Couples are meant to occupy the space within every second square. I was relieved when I found out that I only had one invitation. This meant I wouldn't have to talk anyone into enduring my two left feet for the night. As I head towards my designated table, I look over the face masks of the other guests. I embellished mine myself, adding gems and feathers that wing out to the sides of my black mask. Some wear a more modest mask like mine, while other guests have far more elaborate detailing. Some curl up and around one eye from the bridge of the nose. Others spike up and fan out over the forehead. Some even look as though things are growing from them. It is amazing, and at the same time, bizarre to see. I sit down and smile a little at the thought of reputable fashion designers working away on face masks, day in and day out. All so that the men and women of high society could continue their never ending fight to have the best. They would likely have spent more on getting their masks designed than they would be spending on the charity tonight. I catch myself in the thought, it wasn't fair to paint all of the social elite with the same brush. I am sure there are a lot of them out there who genuinely care and want to help. Before I even have a moment to relax and enjoy the soft and wonderful music, there is a hand on my shoulder. "uhhh, we are not supposed to come in physical contact with anyone that we did not come to the ball with." I say as I turn to look up at the person. But they are gone, a scraping sounds to my other side and I turn back to see a man pulling a chair up, right beside mine. "Your memory must be failing you. I was with you on the car ride over." he says. Though I can't see his mouth I can tell by his eyes, that he is smiling. "Plus, we have already been in contact now, so we may as well just keep one another company for the night." He says slyly as he pulls his mask forward a little to pop an appetiser from the table into his mouth. I look at him incredulously, he just took one of my appetisers. "Who are you?" I demand. "My name is Lincoln Fiori" he says with far too much confidence. I roll my eyes, clearly not the reaction he was expecting. "Yep, that tracks" I say with a sigh.