Masquerade

Masquerade

by Maryssa Dennis Kerri Brown sits in front of the mirror, smoothing away the imperfections of her skin with a brush. She smears color onto her lids and lines her eyes with a dark pencil. She paints her lashes black and dusts her cheeks in pink and traces her lips in scarlet. When she is finished, she looks over the new woman in the mirror without smiling.

Roger Simmons sits at his desk at work, fidgeting in his swivel chair. His fingers tap out a halting rhythm onto the keyboard, but his eyes dart to the window, where he sees a bird in flight, the sun streaming across its feathers. He loosens his tie and keeps typing.

Cheryl Johnson crunches at a pale, limp salad. The pair of Spanx that she had forced herself into that morning squeeze her, not tight enough that she can’t breathe, but tight enough that she feels like she must hold her breath. She concentrates on the salad and tries not to inhale the scent of someone else’s lunch on the air.

Peter Ginsburg beams at every person who walks through the door. His hours are a flood of “What can I do for you, ma’am”s and “Thank you so much”s and “It was my pleasure”s. The people are around enjoy the sunshine in his voice. Secretly, he counts the minutes.

When Peter’s long double-shift is over, he unscrews his smile and lets his face relax into stone.

In the darkness of his empty apartment, he turns on the television and lets someone else’s voice fill the silence. He does not call any friends, only settles into comfortable stillness.

After Cheryl closes her bedroom door behind her, she pulls of the Spanx and sighs in relief. In an oversized T-shirt, she prepares a healthy dinner, humming to herself. When she has finished washing the last dishes, she pauses, considering, and then pulls out a tub of ice cream from the freezer, relishing every bite.

When Roger gets home from work, a pair of stubby legs are stumbling as fast as they can to meet him. He scoops up his little girl in one arm, both of them laughing. He throws her into the air and chases her around the house and pushes her on the little swing set that he built with his own two hands. His wife watches them and smiles wearily. His briefcase lays abandoned at the front door.

At the end of the day, Kerri sits in front of the mirror again. She wets a washcloth and lets the warm water run over her manicured hands. Then she presses the cloth to her face, massaging it over her skin. When she emerges she is clean. She is Kerri. She looks into the mirror and smiles.