Sweeping

Trains of dresses sweep across the cold marble floor, making soft rustling noises. The nervous chatter is masked by music: the trill of flute, the elegant moans of a violin. A cello's strings dance out a melody under the touch of a horse hair bow.

The clink of glasses twinkles against the hushed murmurs near the elegantly set trays of expensive food and rich wine.

Silent wishes of servants hidden in the kitchen, prayers to fairy god mothers fill the back chambers of the hall.

The steps are filled with couples of rich dressed in their finery; others sit on the edge of a lit fountain. Awkward conversations pluck at the silent, crisp air.

The stars wink at each other in silent, knowing ways.

This is not living, they are not in love.