Exposed

This is me, just me. No makeup, no soft lighting, no mask. The wrinkle across my cheek is from the brief, hard nap that I took between 6:00 and 8:00 this morning. The lines fanning out from the corner of my eye are from forty-two years of squinting into the sun. The furrow in the lower right is from an equal number of years of smiling.

* * *

"You could use a chin implant," my mother said, reaching across the restaurant table to tug at the lower half of my face.

"Jesus, Mom."

"Oh, it's easy. They just pop it in, and..."

"What I'm saying is that I don't think there's anything wrong with my face!"

"Well, it's something to think about."

Masks

Santa Barbara Harbor Breakwater, August 2012

"What makes this time different from the last time?" Red asked.

"Different?"

"Yes. How is your relationship with Hardt different from your relationship with Peter? As we're both coming out of spectacularly failed marriages and starting new relationships, I'm curious."

"This time, nothing goes unsaid. I don't assume that he can read my mind. I don't presume to know what's on his. Everything - good and bad - is out in the open."

"How's that working? Can you really do that?"

"Not yet, but I'm trying. I'm learning."

* * *

This month's NaBloPoMo theme is "Mask", and today's prompt is "When you saw the word mask, was your first interpretation protection, covering up, persona, or performance?"

My short answer to that prompt is "yes."

The Camera Eye

"So," he said, running a hand through his hair and looking up at the ceiling, "I have a son with autism, and he's going to be coming out here to live with me."

Seven weeks later, he returned to California with Gothic.

One of his favorite things to do is to take pictures. Hardt says that some of them are gorgeous, but I wouldn't know. The boy keeps his art to himself.

"Did you get some good ones today, Gothic?"

"Yep."

"Can I see some of them?"

"No."

"I"ll show you the ones I took."

"'Kay."

"But I can't see yours?"

"No. They're for me."

"What if I take a whole bunch of pictures of you and I don't let you see them?"

"No!"

"Well, you can't stop me, Gothic. It's happening."

I hope someday he lets me see some of the pictures he takes. I would love to see at least a little bit of what he sees.

"Eye"-let

The Head of a Pin

I bought this pin today. It's the most I've ever spent on a piece of jewelry.

It's in place now, but I've been taking it out every couple of hours to attempt to get a good picture of it. It is a larger gauge than any of my other pins, so removing it and putting it back in is painful, but I keep doing it, hoping that I'll figure out how to get a clear shot of the detailed metalwork. My eyes water every time I try.

One year ago today, right about this time of the evening, Peter leaned back against the sofa, looked down at his feet, and started the weeks-long process of telling me that we were through. I was sporting the scab from the screwdriver incident then; the professional piercing was still a few weeks off.

I can't explain why it's bothering me this much, this anniversary of a brief conversation. It wasn't even the most painful discussion that we had in those long few months of last year. I can't explain it to my housemates, can't explain it to the Amazon, can't explain it to Hardt. Maybe I can't explain it to them because I can't explain it to myself. Doc would probably be able to help me work through it, but, for reasons that will become clear, she and I don't delve too deeply into this corner of my emotional baggage. "I dunno. I'm just in a mood. I'm sure it'll go away once I get some sleep." I don't believe this, but I say it anyway.