"So, Deanna . . , what's in the package?" my father queried. He always queries. "It feels almost as if there's nothing in there."
"Ummmmmmmm," I fail even before I start. I look around wildly. "Well, it is really light."
He starts to laugh at my stuttering, at my loss of words or even reasonable excuses. But what he's thinking of is actually more convincing than the truth.
Because how can I tell him that inside that light package lies an exquisite and gorgeous mask that I will use to seduce a lover?
That I will meet this man at the door, breathless with lust and resplendent with glittering anonymity, draw him into the candlelit apartment, into my arms, my embrace, my mouth, my depths?
No, Father, I cannot say this and for now I can share a laugh with you at the shame I don't possess.