The Carnival

Yes, the other ladies are quite marvellous too.
Swathes of skirt, violet, black, gold, sigh all the way to the floor. Each one is studded with pustules of sequins. Globules of pearls swell with iridescent juices above aging empire necklines. Virgin white rosebuds are rooted in slightly matted wings.
Oh, and the accessories abound; foiled masques, elbow length gloves, paper fans, single roses, hand held mirrors, flimsy butterflies, embroidered tailcoats, creamy parasols, circus lips and so many feathers. Occasionally, you’ll spot poison ivy snaking over a wooden staff, the protruding curl of a unicorn’s horn or maybe a pack of playing cards.
The ladies, they swarm between thin sun set washed walls. The paint has chunked off and bare bricks jut out like Cadbury’s neat, brown squares when the silver foil is peeled back. Petite staircases lead the ladies over winking half moon bridges that glitter with circles of confetti and cigarette butts. The heavy drop of a decorated head and they gaze straight into the clogged sapphire arteries of the city. Poker straight oars lie poised on puffed up, gaudy cushions. Alleyways are lit only by the dim squares of tratorria lanterns imprisoned in wrought iron grips and cobalt blue nightshirts, stringed up between window box gardens to dry, cast watercolour shadows. Arched shutters, the shades of a mermaid’s scales, remain closed against the bejewelled hum.
She, of course, has chosen the jetty instead; a stage.
She puts one lace encrusted finger to her lips. The other hand caresses a plastic stem. Her back arches against the sun as it sinks below the waves, as she leans closer to the lens.
She is not the most beautiful; her plump breasts are pushed against red corset bones, red ribbons cut up her chest, even under the slits of her gold plated mask, red glitter makes her blue eyes pale. No, she is not the most beautiful.
She is the most professional.
Her left hand reaches slowly into her right sleeve, beneath the coarse velveteen of the hire costume. Her fingers touch the hard edge of her business card. She produces it for the member of the press on her left, with a rehearsed curl of her left wrist.
For a moment, cameras pause.