Trying my hand at fiction, now. Real life is too surprising.
"Four wax candles in the darkened room
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid."
She had to know. She had to be sure. She liked the mask after all. It was real. Much more real the boasting children begging the forced genorosity of thin-lipped smiles. Fake smiles and bemused. Like a guilty secret, thanking its good fortune.
She liked the mask's stoic silences; the angular contours of his guise; the honesty of his façade; the immutability of his expression; the refusal to pretend, to conform, to seek judgement, to care.
She caught him looking at her. She returned his stare, even as she walked to him and removed his mask.
He said, "What better way to create fiction, than live it?"
She walked away. She never looked back.