A rainbow of colored skirts swirl around me. Effortless. Gliding. Elegant. Genteel.
I stand, un-moving. Ignored. Unfeeling.
They are a whirl of jewel tones and glitter and laughter and ease.
I am in black and unadorned and grimacing.
The light here sparkles in an unnatural way, glistening off every shinning surface as though Apollo himself were in the room.
I am not used to such opulence, such wealth, such audacity.
Daughters of Aphrodite twirl with sultry smiles and beauty so fine it seems poisonous.
But the Sons of Eros are unafraid; equally as resplendent and a deadly kind of suave.
This is no place for a child of Hermes, the child of a messenger.
A godly servant to the greater gods.
I am all thought and help and creativity and words.
While these beings bathe in refinement and breathe glamour and sleep on pillows of nobility.
I slip through the Olympian ballroom, afraid I've overstayed my welcome, wondering why I thought I could glide among the angels here.
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