Has Eyes

Gush, gush, gush. Green, you look horrible. Beige is too fair. How to 
find a nose? A nose that fits. "I don't feel like a witch."

Rebecca replies:

"No. Do you still want to be a woman?" Her eyes are bigger than 
yours. You know you're staring but the look on your face says 
innocence. 

"I want to wear a costume that says how I feel..." you try to 
explain to her. "You know. You know." She does:

"And you don't feel-"

"You know who I feel like," you cut Rebecca off even though you 
love to listen to her langouring Kiwi voice. "Like Robert Smith of 
the Cure."

"Oh no," she replies concerned.

You're looking up a good six inches at this woman's eyes. They're 
beautiful. And you're staring. And so is she.

"You have to find something." She starts shuffling around the back 
room. Slowly she puts a finger to her lips in contemplation. Oh, to 
be that finger, you think. She spins and says, "I have some great 
masks."

"Great, that's what I need. I don't want anyone to recognise me 
tonight." You look fragile. "No one." Sadness is evaporating off you. 
Even though it's Saturday night before Hallowe'en, the entire store 
seems to be enthralled in your plight. Even customers stop by and 
shake their heads or not, as you try on costume after costume. 
Person after person. You want to crawl up into a small corner. 
With red wine. A small comforter and her shoulder. No people. 
Except her. Who you don't know. At all.

"You can't believe what's happening, frozen are all your limbs by 
your despair. Like a scarecrow, you allow yourself to be dressed 
by the tender hands of your benefactor. Your escape consultant. 
Your maternal surrogate.

"I think you need a cape," Rebecca is flustered. Why does she care 
so much? Why is she spending over an hour with you? Why do 
you get the feeling that she is like this all the time? That it's 
completely genuine.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, the ghoul staring back has eyes 
of a child. You take off the mask, which is hideously ugly, and you 
uncover your face. In its sadness, it is beautiful. Vain, you stare. It 
stares back forever. This is what Rebecca sees. What a beautiful 
name. Of the De Winter variety. Said slowly, properly, it evokes a 
dark castle in Somerset and its chocolate-coloured hair, deep-eyed 
keeper. Not this earthy Greenpeace artist whose eyes comprise 
nine-tenths of her beauty. But you find yourself still staring, only 
occasionally running out of your reverie to find yourself at a loss 
for words as to what to say to bring her closer. And still, she ties 
lace around your neck. As your skin recognises the soft touch of 
her creativity, you wonder about the last time you were touched 
in a similar way. Could it really be four and a half months? Could 
it have been that long? And yet, this touch was a fleeting nothing. 
And still it has been so long. 

The costume starts coming together. Time is running short. Very 
short. You don't want to leave but you can't not. Return it 
tomorrow, you think to yourself. On your way out. I wonder, you 
ask the inevitable question, whether she will be there. You know 
she will be. And you're probably right in assuming that she will 
have been waiting for you. And that the first question she'll ask is 
not about the costume but about you. And how happy you were. 
You're no drama queen. You're a basket case. A portemanteau of 
gushing expressions. Each one's exuding a subtle hue of 
unhappiness bordering on horror. You're an orphan.

Somehow, you're back in your right time, if not your right mind. 
Moments are lingering. You've naturally induced a low deserving 
of a stylish name usually reserved for the newest synthetic drug. 
Sniff, shoot. Sniff. Tears would be cliche and will probably arrive 
anyway. You know. She even knows.

"So it's your party," she says.

"Yes, and I'm..." an existential pause, "...late. But it doesn't matter." 
A strong silence saturated by a stare. "I'm feeling better. Thank 
you." You show unparalleled gratitude. For her care. For her.

"You really love this job, don't you?" another customer remarks to 
Rebecca.

She stops:

"Yes. Even now."

Especially now, you think. Just like you, in your day job, you come 
through when you're squeezed. Now, she's there. And you're with 
her. You're probably responsible for her happiness. And you're 
probably the root of many future stories, or more likely, passing 
remarks made at the dinner table in response to the question, 'So 
how was your day?'

"So how was your day?" Rebecca's question is eery. "You said 
before that it has been bad. How?" She can sense you're spooked.

"My day?" Your confirmation you say softly, more to yourself. 
"Bad. Lunch with...well, someone I didn't want to have lunch with. 
And sadness. I said goodbye to someone I didn't want to say 
goodbye to."

"Her look suggests that she thinks it's someone special. Still, 
Rebecca doesn't say.

"Family is very important to me."

Rebecca doesn't look reassured. You look disappointed so she 
smiles. Her emptiness can be sumptuous. You think you can see 
right through her, or more appropriately into her.

Suddenly, your last again. Escaping through space and time, 
through wig and mask to planets and fantasies you've created. 
You sniff. Flowers. You thought you saw flowers. Sitting in your 
change capsule with the curtain drawn, you lean up against the 
wall and hit the hyperspace key.

"Passport, sir?" the voice asks.

You're cold and you have nothing in your hands. They're clammy. 
Confused, you ask back:

"Passport?" His look is unchanged. "I don't have it...with...I didn;t 
think I'd..." You stop when you realise he's a dog or a dog face.

You step off the cloud and fall through the air to a leaf-covered 
empty space in teh middle of a Fall forest. It looks normal. No one 
is in sight, but you feel everyone is watching. The forest is 
whispering something to you. The words turn into a song and 
when you open your eyes, you're in an opera hall and you know 
it's St. Petersburg, probably in the 1700s. Whispers continue. 
They're in a Russian dialect that you understand. Something about 
Karenin. You look up into the boxes and it's the press box at a 
hockey game. There's non one. Except Rebecca standing opposite 
you, smiling softly with one hand on your shoulder. You shudder 
and almost faint.

Looking up, you notice that you're late. She's got both her hands 
on your shoulders now. You speak:

"I feel like him," you point to the mirror. "Crazy but dead. Zombie 
Amadeus."

"You do?" Rebecca asks. "Is that OK? Don't just say that 'cos you're 
late. Is that...Does that make you happy?"

"Yes." You turn around. The mist is wearing off. She and you stare 
one last time. She breaks away:

"I'll draw up the bill. You take that off. Here's a bag." 

You look at the bag like you don't know what to do with it. It 
clicks. Slowly, you peel off your death, your ghoul. Regular clothes: 
orange shirt, black jeans and black leather jacket appear. 

You walk over to pay. Rebecca looks at you and doesn't recognise 
you. 

"You look much different looking like that. I mean, in those 
clothes."

"It's funny, you know, I just want to rush back and put the 
costume on again, to again become him." You smile, "I like me 
better that way too."

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