The room smelled of dust and the water dripping from my roof in the corner. The small window beside me looked out onto a side alley, letting the dim afternoon light seep into the room. Carriages passed by, holding women donning feathered hats and frosted in expensive jewelry. They chattered, discussing how tidy their maids were or their multitudinous outfits to choose from for the party they would go to that night. I surveyed my own room, imagining it as they might. My bed rested on my wooden floor, draped in rich clothes of cotton and wool. The rug, an extravagant purchase, was the dirt dragged in from the alley outside. My dress was handmade by the best dressmaker, my own hand patching up an old frock. I stared back at my reflection in the small mirror, admiring the crevices along my face as I’m sure those women often did. I took out my pale makeup, to make my face shielded from the harsh gaze of the sun, because men liked pale women. The water kept dripping as I fixed my hair, combing through the knots. The extravagant wigs of the carriage women were nothing in comparison to the knots that made my hair so tall. I combed through the corn colored mess, imagining myself on the way to an exclusive party like they were. The water in the corner went drip, drip, drip against the bucket on the ground, increasing in speed as the rain began again and the afternoon light drained to twilight. The sky clouded over and it began to cry, grieving as the day left it and was replaced by darkness. The rain dripped faster through the roof, and a constant stream of water began against the bottom of the bucket. Drip, drip, drip. I could see my own reflection less and less in the mirror as the daylight faded. Streetlamp's turned on, falsely illuminating my small world. I donned the rest of my makeup and clothes, and left my room. I stood outside my room, watching the torrent of rain beside me, and was thankful the overhang of the roof protected me against the elements like a carriage. I smoothed my dress over, and nodded to the passing men and women on the walkway passing me. Women like me strolled along the street, holding parasols of newspapers. We avoided the pouring gutters, expelling a torrent of water beneath our feet. The pooling puddles were cold, drip, dripping into my shoes. Man after man walked by me, gazing at me in the ballroom of the event we were at. He would ask me to dance, and we would waltz beneath the downpour of rain around us. We twirled, swirling in tapestries and avoiding our own reflections in favor of the romance of the night. We stayed close together, dancing in the moonlight and warm fireplaces of the mansion around us. I awakened again on my on my bed, beside the unknown man that had led me through the palace through dance. There was no dance or romance or tapestry, through. There was the cold mattress, the money on my dresser, and a frock to cover the mirror. The light was all faded; even the streetlights were dim. The water was no longer dripping and the rain had stopped, but the bucket had overflowed. I went over to the window, looking far into the distance, where a warm light emanated from a beautiful building, holding the women who had gone by me in the carriage in the twilight.