The Mask

Switch. Click. Light.

Switch. Click. Dark.

Switch. Click. Light.

Switch. Click … you get it, right?

Switch. Click. Smile comes on.

Switch. Click. Professional interest showing in a straight face.

Switch. Click. A smooth face, the calm voice that speaks with knowledge and conviction. The voice of a leader.

Switch. Click. The end of the day. Tired. No voice, no smile. Just tired.

Switch. Click. One mask.

Switch. Click. Another.

Switch. Click. Before the alarm, I wake. I turn, I hug, I wish a happy day. I am the loving wife. I brush, I bathe, I dress. I make the breakfast for husband and children.

Switch. Click. They are gone, I am still on my first cup of tea. I check emails, I check Facebook and chat with two of my friends.

Switch. Click. I carefully apply make-up. I feel like a clown and tone down the red lipstick. I add extra colour around the eyes, to make sure that in the glaring light of a million small light bulbs later on I won’t look washed out. I should have asked the make-up artist to swing by and help, but it is too early to call her and now it is too late. This will have to do. I have to do.

Switch. Click. Time to go. The driver is waiting as I step outside. While he concentrates on the traffic, I check the news. I love my gadgets.

Switch. Click. At the meeting. My assistant has arranged the conference hall. My presentation shows on the screen, the lighting is well balanced so that I look my very best. I have a lot to say, and I know my stuff. I am the competent professional, but behind the smile and the make-up, I am simply only me. If I am not careful, the mask will crack.

Switch. Click. The welcoming smile comes on as my audience filters into the arena.

Switch. Click. Nerves get folded away, parked out of sight. My palms rest with each other. I have a history of worrying my fingertips, and I don’t want to risk the embarrassment of blood smear over my dress. Licking my finger clean would be too personal and not befitting the occasion.

Switch. Click. The lights turn off, spotlight on the one person at front: on me. The light shines in my eyes, I cannot see those looking at me. I can hear their silence. I can hear the awkward moving of suits on cold plastic chairs. I wish it was over. I wish I was one of them.

Switch. Click. I start by introducing myself. Applause and cat whistles when I give my name. Why bother? Everybody knows. This is why they are here. To hear me speak. To hear what I have to say.

Switch. Click. They were promised 90 minutes. After 85 minutes of talking non-stop over the slides that my secretary has helped organise, I open the stage for questions. Lights come on to help the assistants with the microphones find the voices that belong to the raised hands.

Switch. Click. The first question about the rumours and security steps in. There are hands that help me to a chair. Voices that shunt questions of a more personal nature to a track that leads nowhere.

Switch. Click. In amongst the people all around, I am so lonely I could cry. I am so tired that I do cry.

Switch. Click. Hustled back to the car. ‘That went well, don’t you think?’ my secretary asks. I think I nod. I think I need to smile still. I think. And then I don’t.

Switch. Click. Home alone. The children still at school, husband at the office.

Switch. Click. In the bathroom, I run a bath. I stand in front of the mirror; I wash off the make-up and see what lies beneath. I see the worry lines; I see the laughter lines fighting for space around my eyes. All around my lips, there are small furrows. I am getting old. I release my hair from the knot that my grandmother showed me how to tie. I ruffle it lose, fluff it into a lion’s mane.

Switch. Click. I smile but the smile does not reach my eyes. I empty the smelling salts into the bath. The water is steaming and my skin hurts as I lower myself into the heat. Husband will be angry when he sees the dark red splotches. Never mind: husband not here. Who knows when he will get back?

Switch. Click. I turn off the masks, I am myself as I slide lower and lower into the water. I hold my breath and wait. I hear the beating of my own heart. I have a pulse. I am alive.

Switch. Click.