by Janice Capasso

Created on: October 10, 2009

The Heart of Halloween

Emma's heart pounded wildly. The invitation was addressed in elegant calligraphy, no return address to identify the sender. Its intent to intrigue, entice. Tearing eagerly, she removed the cream colored card, tossing the envelope aside as she read. Gold embossed lettering beckoned her to a masquerade ball this Saturday night. Halloween.

It was an exclusive event supporting a local charity. It was also formal, costume required, and rather specific on one point: each attendee's costume must not reveal the wearer's identity. She examined the invitation again. At five hundred dollars per person, this had to be somebody's idea of a joke. There was no way she could afford such an extravagance, even for charity!

But at the bottom of the card, a handwritten note addressed her: "My dearest Emilia, let's see what magic awaits us this All Hallows Eve. Your ticket is enclosed." There was no signature. Instead, one final message: "All that I am is yours."

The erratic thud of her heart began again. She reread the words. "All that I am is yours." Who sent this? She didn't know whether to be frightened or flattered, and her mind flooded with contradictions. Do I attend or alert the authorities? Where would I find the right costume? Have I gone mad? I can't do this! Can I? What would Rob think?

"Rob," she sighed aloud. Steady, solid, reliable Rob. They had been together nearly four years, and she most certainly loved him. But lately, she had begun to wonder where the excitement had gone, questioning whether this was how all relationships eventually turned, to that quiet complacence where the two of you just....were. Where was their relationship going? He was certainly in no hurry to move things along, appearing perfectly content with the status quo. Emma thought she wanted more, but was this right? Considering some clandestine encounter with....who?

Looking again at the invitation, the word "ticket" finally registered. Retrieving the discarded envelope from the pile of shredded junk mail, she peered inside. Sure enough, it was there, bearing the same tidy script. "Destiny awaits."

This had to be a joke. She wondered who she could have crossed paths with, made this much of an impression on, to prompt such action. She had never considered herself all that impression-worthy. Actually, she thought herself quite average. But her unassuming nature had the affect of making her all the more attractive to her male counterparts.

Where she saw utter plainness, men

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