Mask

Jasper Corrington closed the door behind him and let the mask slip. Gone was the twinkle in his eye and the perpetual smile he brandished like armour during the outside hours. He was home. The only place he could truly be himself.

With slumped shoulders, he kicked his polished shoes off and let them come to rest askew on the hallway rug. He dropped his keys into the misshapen little bowl on the table by the door, dropped his briefcase, and shuffled through to the small lounge where a thin slither of early evening sunlight snuck through the crack in the curtains, dust motes dancing in its wan glory.

His eyes roved around the small space coming to rest on the worn and patched armchair in the bay window. Her chair. Always her chair. Even now. The ticking of the antique clock on the mantelpiece drew his attention, flanked on either side by the faded black & white wedding pictures. A wistful smile etched his face as the tear rolled down his cheek to be flicked away by an absentminded movement of the hand.

Jasper shuffled back into the hallway, closing the door behind him and headed down the narrow hallway in the direction of the kitchen. No wonderful smells to assault his senses. None of the singsong Irish lilt he’d gotten used to over the years echoing toward him.

There’s an old saying that time heals all wounds. Nobody told Jasper.

In the kitchen Jasper went about making himself a cup of tea. The old faucet groaned and let out a meagre trickle of water for the kettle; almost as if protesting it was he there and not her. He struggled to light the gas hob, the clicking of the mechanism as old and tired as he felt. He set the kettle on the burner and readied the cup, spoon, teabag, and retrieved the milk from the fridge.

He smiled when he thought of the fuss she’d make if she saw him making tea this way…

~

Jasper trundled down the hallway, pausing by the door to right his discarded shoes and push his briefcase against the wall. He headed up the protesting staircase, two feet to one step each time, gripping the bannister with a trembling hand.

He walked past the master bedroom – their room – to the small box room at the back of the house. It had been a spare room but was his room now. Had been for the last three years.

He changed into his pyjamas and sat on the edge of the single bed, duvet pulled back. He closed his eyes and murmured, ‘Goodnight, my love.’ Just like he’d done every night for the last forty years. Just like he’d done for the last three years with no reply. Swinging his legs into the bed, he pulled the duvet around him and settled down to sleep.

~

Jasper finished his tea and toast and laid his crockery in the sink. He retrieved his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair and shrugged himself into it and ambled into the hallway.

Shoes on, briefcase in hand, and keys in pocket, Jasper took a deep breath and composed himself. With a smile on his face, and a twinkle in his eye. He donned his mask, opened the door and stepped outside…