The Mask Maker

After an excruciating wait, I found myself face to face with the Mask Maker.

    I’d waited idly for hours, twiddling my thumbs and letting my thoughts navigate themselves where they pleased. At the heart of these thoughts was the mask that I would soon don for the first time. The pungency of my excitement clogged the nostrils of my fellow waiters.

    When she appeared before me, my pupils dilated to the corners of my lopsided eyes. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a loose bun, flyaways circling her face like Saturn’s rings. A once-vibrant apron was hastily tied around her waist and her neck. Her artisan’s hands were calloused, bruised, and worn—and yet, they seemed so gentle.

    She met my gaze with a firm lovingness. “What would you like on your mask?” she asked as she reached for a blank mask to decorate.

    “Plain, please.”

    The Mask Maker frowned, wrinkles appearing on her furrowed brow like little explosions. “No glitter?” I shook my head. “Rhinestones?” Again, I refused. She sighed. “You came this far just for a plain mask? Aren’t you afraid of blending in?”

    “That’s precisely it,” I countered. “I’d like a mask that doesn’t talk for me. I’d like to do the talking myself.”

    “Aren’t you a smartass,” she scoffed.

    I took a step back. “I don’t mean to be. I’d just like a plain mask.”

    She tossed the mask in my direction, and I caught it. “Take it,” she murmured. “Waste of my damn time.”

    Dazed, and perhaps a hair starstruck, I turned my back to the Mask Maker and made my way to the exit. No one in line bothered to crane their neck for a glimpse of my mask, unamused by the absence of color. Still, I admired it, feeling the coolness of my fingerprints melt into the wood. It was exactly what I envisioned—dull, blank, unassuming.

    I lifted the mask to my face.