Glamour was a daily component of existence. It was found in the glittering chandeliers, the invitations of desire met between shining eyes. Every dusk and dawn, it was as sure as the tides on the coast, hiding the sharks below.

One of these chess pieces was a woman haunted by her own nobility. A victim to one of the countless nights at the ball, she stumbled into the gardens, run by the champagne pumping 

her heart.

She reached the fountain and, in a forbidden act of clumsiness, sat on the edge---a butterfly waiting for more pollen.

But instead of seeing flowers, she saw a player outside of her game emerge---a moth seeking the false light seeping out of her foggy brain.

Tempted by the dull shine of her elusive beauty, the moth flew forward, fuzzy wings brushing against her glossed lips.

The sharks from the tides of glamour emerged, and a victim of the blood she so desperately craved, sunk her polished teeth into its own desperation for her light.

Wings flapped in a dance of dominance, seeking, pulling, biting, chewing. Torn wings laid on the grass below, coins in the fountain’s waters of hopeful wishes.

The butterfly’s light faded and the hope for the essence of the moth vanished. They sat tattered, a final chaotic embrace before disappearing into the fountain below, the cacophony of the ball still heard past their short-lived game.