The woman lifted her mask up to her eyes, securing its extravagant form to her by tying the back behind her head. Her skirts swept the dirty streets as she stepped out from her hiding place. Just last night, this street was filled with people and life.

A person couldn't move without bumping into another. Glitter and beads rained down for the windows above like a magical rain. Each face held a smile, drunken or real. Girls danced with boys they never met. Women couldn't recognize their husbands. It was all good fun. Nobody could get hurt if nobody knew who was under the mask.

The woman gave a wicked smile as she lept over a sleeping man. His mask was askew on his broken nose. His sleeves were soaked red with wine. Her laugh echoed down the dirty street. Nobody heard.

For, as the town set itself afire with the flame of frivolity, she had been watching in the shadows, feeding off of the breaking hearts. With each twirl of a skirt, she saw the aching feet. In every yard of lace, she drank the pain.

After this day, couples broke up, and hearts shriveled up and died. When the husband came in that morning, complimenting his wife on her purple dress, she told him she wore gold. They both shut their mouths. The woman will watch through the window as the days go by and they speak less and less. Until the wife doesn't even recognize the man she used to call beloved.

A day of masks. A day of no cares. A day of lust.

The woman lifts her skirts, revealing her black shoes, and walks down the steps. She breathes in the air and grins. Wonderful harvest.