As the people floated across the floor, lovely in gowns and suits, a question lurked in my mind. Why could I not dance too? Why couldn’t I float with them, as they waltzed and tangoed, twirling without a care. I was the same as them, was I not?

 I, too, had a pretty dress that meet the floor. I, too, had a face done up to impress, with lapis eyes and carved ruby lips.  My hair was braided into a tight bun, with a golden flower sat upon the top. It was done much nicer than the girl who was just asked to dance. I am just as pretty, I would say

. That is what they would always tell me. Some who came to see me even said I was more beautiful then the queen. The only difference between me and the ones dancing through the room  was that no one has ever asked me to dance. Never have they stopped not only to admire me, but also offer a hand in invitation. Even the ones who said they love me. Does that mean I will never be asked? Was I never to float through the ballroom, to have a handsome stranger hold me close? 

…That would appear to be the case. 

I suppose I will just stay here then, upon my marble pedestal, still the loveliest in the room. Until the day someone offers me a dance. Until the day they offer me a hand.