I’ve Been Hiding Behind a Mask
He gave me a reason to take it off
It’s 8.30 am and she pulls up in the library parking lot. This early, she has the pleasure of parking right in front of the glass doors. As usual, it’s deserted. Many people arrive between 8.50 and 9.00 am — when the doors open.
She closes her eyes, attempting to stop the pervading thoughts seeping into her mind, like malignant cells — they spread in the cramped space between her ears. She declares her intention. To write.
There are too many distractions at home. If unpretentious, she could acknowledge the excuses. I am weak, I can’t resist the distractions, I welcome them. Days would pass naively — indulging in romantic flicks and sweat dripping workouts. Both compelling arguments for a healthy mind and body. She had a sizable number of words in the English language at her disposal to knit, weave, and stitch into the next sentence, the next paragraph, and the next idea.
Endless possibilities, yet finite abilities.
When she comes to, more cars have pulled in the parking lot. She ponders. To those who view libraries on the brink of extinction — through widespread dissemination of ebooks and online learning in the hands of every age group cradling their smartphone close to their bosoms, your view is as limited as your thinking.
She flips the sun visor to look in the mirror. She examines her face. Making sure she concealed her dark undereye circles, inherited as a family trait. She is never caught leaving the house without her trusted powdered foundation. Coincidently called ‘Flawless’. She knows all too well it’s rare finding a product that walks the talk. Without it, she feels tired, and worse looks like an insomniac. But little does everyone know (or else they would envy her), she sleeps like a baby.
With a smooth canvas, the winged black kohl on her eyes leaps out like bold letters from a white page. She doesn’t apply them to enhance her beauty, only to follow traditional Indian culture, believed to ward off evil eyes.
She looks out the window and sees the doors open, takes out her mask, puts it on, and heads inside. No one can see her face or recognize her. She loves this about the mask. It alludes to her mystery. Not to say without it, she is an open book.
She understands everyone wears a mask — the metaphorical kind — to hide their true identities or pretend to be someone they are not.
For the better part of this year, she has worn a mask, like many others. For her, it’s a boost in confidence. It assures her abilities without having to be self-conscious. The feeling of having fewer eyes on her. Scrutinizing every feature on her face, her lips, and her teeth when she talks.
The eyes are the true gateways to the soul and hidden behind them, is the story of her life and the constant tussles she has with writing.
Libraries are a neutral place. No excitement to divert the attention away from her goal. She walks in with blinkers on, heading straight towards her usual table. The lighting is dull — a safe haven compared to the migraine triggering fluorescent lighting in her duplex.
Walking past rows and rows of books makes her wonder, “How does one choose?” It’s reminiscent of walking into a store with racks and racks of clothing. Which ends up being one of two things — retail therapy or anxiety. Like with clothes, she lets the books speak to her. Cover, color, pitch, and foreword, determine whether they indulge her for hours or remain on the hopeful, non-dusty shelves.
She prefers to keep her mask on and with laser focus resists the urge to look up every time a figure walks past. Today will be no different. Her days at the library resemble the job of a printer paper feeder.
But today would be different. Someone was walking in her direction. Her heart starts racing and her hands become clammy, she prays they keep walking by. Her gaze, though lowered confirms it is a man, wearing dark jeans and a blue sweater.
Why does God never answer her prayers immediately? She would wait patiently, but how could she exercise patience [Pariksaha] at a time like this.
Startled, she pries her eyes away from the laptop screen.
“Hello there,” he mumbles under his mask.
She feels relieved, at least he was wearing one. God does listen after all. The creases around his eyes confirm he is smiling.
“Hi,” she replies, not in the mood for a conversation.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve noticed you come in every day this past week,” he admits. “And I thought today would be a great day to come over.”
“Oh,” she says clearly embarrassed.
She wasn’t aware of any eyes on her. Irritated, she reprimands herself for not paying more attention to the people. If she did, would she have noticed him? Anyway, the library didn’t seem like the perfect pick-up scene! Not for her anyway, she steered clear of the nerdy type. Not to generalize but she was sitting in a library. She makes a mental note to scan the room from now on. But that would be creating a distraction, one that she was trying to avoid.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I really wanted to say hi,” he reiterates.
“Not at all,” she quickly but politely replies. He makes himself comfortable on the chair across from her without asking. She raises her right eyebrow as if it was an involuntary reaction. He notices because for the third time now he asks if it’s ok.
Now that they are at the same level, she notices his eyes. With the lack of light, it’s hard to pinpoint the color. Like a Sherwin-Williams swatch card- it could be Splashy, Nifty Turquoise, or Intense Teal.
“I’m Cruze, by the way,” he adds. “I’m part of the Artists in Residence program here at the library. I have to admit seeing you every day was like a burst of inspiration for me. You helped me see from a new perspective on how to approach my project this year.”
She should take that as a compliment but she is too busy trying to recall her choice of clothing the past week. It was petty and vain. But she wanted to infer whether the inspiration was due to her fashion sense or not.
“How so?” she asks keeping her response nonchalant but curious.
“Well, your eyes for one, tell a story of mysticism, emotion, and yearning,” he replies confidently.
So much for warding off the evil eye. My kohl becomes the flame; him the moth.
He continues to explain that artists have this hunger to constantly search and mull over things. For him, it was — people. It was a strong, clear statement. He was beginning to sound as intriguing to her, as she to him.
Before she got sucked up in the vortex of his headspace, she comes to her senses.
“It was a pleasure to meet you.” She half raises her hand, then withdraws it. “All the best with the program. But now I must get back to work.”
She has piqued his interest.
He inquires, “What kind of work do you do?”
She dares not roll her eyes. “I write.” Best to stick to one-word answers, she thinks.
His eyes grow wide with relief. “A fellow artist,” he raises his hands to the heavens.
There in front of her, she sees her intent for the day fade away.
She wasn’t interested in giving birth to his next masterpiece, but that was out of her control. If she could give life and meaning to his art, he could conceivably be the creation of her next story.
They were more alike than she thought. Each looking for meaning, reason, and inspiration. Looking for more, to create their next magnum opus. Little did he know, while he saw her as his muse, he had become hers too.