From my small corner, I watched her preside over the party, laughter lighting up her eyes as a glass of wine sat in her delicate, marble hand. Her dark curls played about her face, rippling in the dim candlelight as she brushed them back ever so gently. Her thick, dark lashes fluttered as she spoke, a smile crossing her sweet, thin lips.
A pink blush bloomed in her cheeks as another man neared, making her turn ever so slightly away from my view. He murmured words that blurred into the commotion of the party, his handsome facade making her smile larger and her one visible, bright eye dash with admiration. Anger blossomed in my chest as she took his hand and stood, her gaze holding his own, guiding her to the hall of dancing, her figure disappearing into the crowd.
I clenched my fists, tensing. Once she had spoken to me, once she had met my eye, and I knew for certain she did not remember my name. Mr. John Williams, a forgettable name for certain, placed with a forgettable face. Unknown, anonymous. I was Anonymous to her; plain, boring. Never would I catch her heart, or win her love.
(a description of my character in the short story, Anonymous)