Smile

Smile; one more shot, and it’s done. Flash, blindness, the sounds of people moving in the darkness. Voices:

“Alright, that’s a wrap!”

Blinking, I search out the little makeup station and fall into the folded seat. More by feel and practice than sight, I find the warm rag I need, and begin washing the paint away. I feel a certain odd shock when I open my eyes and find my own face in the lighted mirror. Was that sad looking fellow really me? I made a face at my reflection. I was.

I needed a nap. Whoever was beyond the looking glass wanted a quiet afternoon, a good book, and silence.

“The woods are lovely,” I answered those pleading eyes. “But I have promises to keep.”

Rising with a groan from my chair, I started on the winding path through the studio that would eventually lead me out into the parking lot and, through that maze, to my car. It was a hundred miles to the City of Dreams, and the romance of the road and the mystery of untraveled exits, and the things I might find on my way, sang their siren song. One more trip, and then I could fly home. One more drive. One more performance. One more painting. One more cleaning the white face off and facing what was underneath. Then, I will promise this to myself, home.

Home! What a spell is hidden in that word. Just the thought of it could make me smile—a real smile not made of red paint.