“Unrequited love is the infinite curse of a lonely heart.”
?Christina Westover
T’was the night before Halloween, when all through the night
Was a crowd full of people, Hollywood’s elite dressed in black and white;
Fancy costumes, and masks, covered in bling
And even those dressed scandalous wishing for a quick holiday fling;
But there amongst the crowd, stood the man who owned my heart
A man so unattainable, forbidden, and worlds apart;
For he was the man my sister fell in love with and did wed
And after the rainbow, their marriage fell dead;
She threw it all away, their happiness, their life
So, nothing could be done but to mourn the loss of his wife;
He begged me to fix them, be the pawn in their twisted games
But games are deceitful, and now’s he’s to blame;
He broke them for good with a mistress one night
Shattered everything about them with nothing more to fight;
They could never be repaired, and if only for one day
I wished it was me, a world no longer filled with gray;
A world full of rainbows, for he would be mine
But be careful what you wish for because it’s only a matter of time;
For my heart to be broken, just likes hers, riddled with pain
And now I wish I could take it all back, feel no love, no loss, no vain.
“This is a fucking disaster.”
The full-length mirror rests against my bedroom wall, the intricate gold carvings handcrafted by a designer from Italy. It is a ridiculously expensive piece, an impulse purchase fueled by an argument with a sleazy director and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. It became the apple of my eye in this lonely bedroom of mine, and admiring the beautiful gold carvings brought me more joy than the reflection I saw staring back at me.
Turning to the side, my gaze shifts over the black lace dress in the reflection of the mirror. The dress is awful. Two sizes too big, made from some cheap polyester material. Puffy sleeves were not making a comeback despite what anyone told me.
“What the hell was Gina thinking? This is the ugliest piece of shit I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t use this to clean the kitchen floor.” Valentino raises his voice, throwing his arms in the air in frustration before closing his eyes and massaging his scalp.
Valentino is my stylist, self-confessed fashionista, and a fully-fledged drama queen. He lives and breathes fashion, and in the five years he’s worked for me, he hasn’t gotten a single outfit wrong.
Until now.
Standing beside me in his Gucci loafers, tight white slacks, and gold silk shirt, he rattles off a list of things he could do with this dress, which all coincidently involve using it as a rag.
“Valentino,” I say sternly, attempting to rein in his focus. “The party’s in six hours. Do you have any other dresses? Surely, this can’t be the only one. You said there were five. I don’t understand why we can’t find something?”