The Greek air hummed with music as we walked toward the village square, where strings of fairy lights twinkled above market stalls and the smell of grilled souvlaki mixed with jasmine. Lila’s hand was warm in mine, her black curly hair held back by a purple ribbon (the same one she’d worn at our wedding), and her red shorts—faded but beloved—swung lightly with each step. “I can’t believe we almost missed the harvest festival,” she said, grinning as a group of musicians played a lively folk tune. I squeezed her hand, my pocket feeling heavy with the small box I’d hidden that morning. “Wait till you see what I brought,” I said, winking. Red masks for a beautiful lady—this was the surprise I’d been planning all week.
We’d heard about the village’s annual harvest festival from Nikos, who’d laughed and said, “You two need to go—they have the best honey cakes, and the locals wear masks. It’s like a party for the sun.” Lila had been excited ever since, talking about trying the honey cakes and dancing to the folk music, but I’d had an extra plan: a hand-painted red mask, decorated with tiny seashells we’d collected from the beach and a sprig of dried lavender from our porch. I’d found the mask at the market earlier that week, and spent three nights painting it, careful to match the shade of red to her favorite shorts—the ones that made her eyes light up like the festival lights.
As we reached the square, Lila pulled me toward a stall selling honey cakes, her eyes wide. “Look—they have banana honey ones!” she said, pointing to a plate of golden-brown cakes drizzled with syrup. I bought two, handing her one, and watched as she took a bite, crumbs dusting her lower lip. “Perfect,” she said, smiling. “Almost as good as your banana muffins.” I laughed, wiping the crumbs away with my thumb, and nodded toward a quieter corner of the square, where a bench sat under a jasmine tree. “Come with me,” I said. She followed, curiosity in her eyes, and when we sat down, I pulled the small box from my pocket.
“For you,” I said, handing it to her. Lila opened it slowly, and when she saw the red mask, her breath caught. The seashells glinted in the fairy light, and the lavender sprig smelled soft and sweet—just like our porch in the mornings. “You made this?” she said, her voice quiet. I nodded, reaching over to trace the edge of the mask. “Red for your favorite shorts,” I said. “Seashells from our beach, lavender from our porch. I wanted it to be… us.” She picked up the mask, holding it up to her face, and smiled. “It’s perfect,” she said. “I love it. Thank you.” I leaned in, kissing her, and the taste of honey cake mixed with the jasmine in the air. Red masks for a beautiful lady—never had a gift felt so right.
Afterward, we walked through the square, Lila wearing the mask, and people smiled as we passed. A group of children waved, pointing at the seashells on the mask, and Lila waved back, laughing. We stopped at a stall selling lemonade, and the vendor complimented her mask. “Your partner has good taste,” he said, winking at me. Lila’s cheeks turned pink, and she squeezed my hand. “He does,” she said. We danced to the folk music, Lila’s mask slipping a little as she twirled, and I caught it, fixing it back on her face. “Can’t have my beautiful lady losing her mask,” I said. She grinned, pulling me closer, and we danced slower, the music fading into the background as we looked at each other—her eyes behind the red mask, mine full of love.
Later, we sat on the beach, the six-pack towel spread out beneath us, and Lila took off the mask, setting it beside her. The moon was bright, painting the ocean silver, and the waves crashed softly against the shore. “Tonight was perfect,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “The cake, the music, the mask… everything.” I wrapped my arm around her, kissing the top of her head. “It was perfect because you were here,” I said. “Red mask or no red mask, you’re the most beautiful lady I’ve ever known.” She laughed, pushing me playfully, and we lay back on the towel, looking up at the stars.
As we walked back to the beach house, Lila held the red mask in one hand and my hand in the other. The mask’s seashells glinted in the moonlight, and the lavender scent still clung to it. “I’m gonna hang it by the six-pack towel,” she said, her voice soft. “So every morning, I’ll see it and remember tonight.” I nodded, squeezing her hand. “And every morning, I’ll remember how beautiful you looked in it,” I said.
When we reached the house, Lila placed the mask on the shelf with our seashells, and I turned off the porch light. We stood in the doorway, looking at the ocean, and Lila leaned against me. “I love you,” she said. “More than red masks, more than honey cakes, more than all the seashells on the beach.” I kissed her, slow and deep, and whispered, “I love you too. Forever.”
Red masks for a beautiful lady—they’re not just pieces of paint and seashells. They’re moments: the way she gasped when she opened the box, the way she smiled as she wore it, the way we danced under the fairy lights. They’re love, wrapped in red, made of the little things that make our married life happy. And as I held her close that night, I knew—there would be many more red masks, many more festivals, many more moments of love. Exactly how we wanted it.
