And then he swaggers in. His hair is gelled into spikes that gives his face a boyish charm. An unruly schoolboy wearing a man’s clothes. His niceness that I used to find so appealing now irritates me. He wears it like a mask; he wears it well.
His gait is confident, measured: tailored to emit silent messages of his capabilities, his 'leadership skills'. He walks like a man destined for higher things in life, who for the moment is doing his rounds on the training floor; with a resignation that comes from the knowledge that to get to the top of the ladder, one has to start from the lowest rung. The patience of a saint.
I am suddenly overcome by a strange urge to run to him, land a heavy one square on his jaw and scream that he is a loser, a goddamn fake article. It makes me nauseous.
But I see him flash his trademark fake smile, eyes all crinkly and creasing into two thin slits on his face. He croons, ‘Hello sweetheart, how are you?’, and I croon right back at him, ‘I am good, sweetie, how are you?’. I know now that he is fake. Does he know yet that I am too?
2 comments:
Hey...just saw your comment on my 'of words..' post over on caferati. Thanks for the compliments. But do I know you?
most likely yes, like the bard said, the world is a stage...
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