Cinderella

I do not expect you to easily follow this tale. I scratched it out in the dark of night when I thought I might be unseen and then I should have scratched it out before morning came. It might be better for you not to listen to what never was. But I warn you, I don’t truly believe any more in appearances. But to my dismay, I find that I cannot doubt them either. It is a spell, I tell you. I am not entirely mistaken. But which part? I wonder. I wander. It would be safer to assume that anything is possible. And that is surely foolishness. Only some things are possible, and even those things might not be possible in the way that anyone might dare imagine.

So to begin, again. We are not what we appear to be. We have been cast under a spell. It is possible that this appearance spell has been made to protect us from madness, but I do not really know.

I was alone last night. Wandering the street. Strangers shouldered by. I dodged the cars. Green light. Red light. Don’t walk.  I walked, hungry and thirsty. The sign said ‘Open.’ When you don’t know where you are going, you might as well follow the signs.

It was warm and nearly empty inside. A young woman appeared to be washing dishes at a small sink in the corner of the kitchen. I had seen her several times before. She turned her head at the sound of a bell on the door and she smiled at me.

I ordered, ate, rested a moment, and left.

But now that I might be safe, I write. I don’t know what you see when you look out of your eyes into another’s, but I swear I saw something in her eyes last night. I will tell you what I saw. But remember, I don’t believe in appearances. And you should be suspicious of my words. There are changing spells everywhere.

It appears that she is a barista in a coffee shop. She is young and pretty. That is obvious. It should go without saying that I am old and foolish. But this is all a kind of nonsense. She is a woman, working for a little money. Last night she handed me a club sandwich and a glass of ice water. The sandwich, stacked high in layers, had been skewered and cut into four diamonds. This was nothing more than the sign of a sharp knife and a careful hand.

I bit into one corner of one quarter and I looked over at her by the stove wearing a slightly faded cotton shirt, cut down to reveal her back, her skin, pale.

I have questioned myself, not once, but a hundred times, whether what little I cared for her, did I care about her more because she is young and pretty? Would I have instead cared about her less if she looked like the woman I passed on the street before pushing into the coffee shop, this older woman’s hair in disarray, her skin hard-weathered, flushed, her smile broken?

It would be a lie to say that I am tormented. Why, after all, should I not be happy to eat a simple sandwich and appreciate the beauty of youth? And catch the kindness gleaming in her unbroken eyes.

I tell myself that it is the kindness that I care about. But I still doubt myself. I do not believe that I know who I am.

Forgive me for my weakness. Forgive me for what are surely scribbled half-truths at best. But I must pretend or go mad. It is the spell after all.

But I know that she is Cinderella and I am a footman. Her rags are real enough now, but she is a princess. At the stroke of midnight, all of everything turns to darkness. My white whiskers, my beaked nose, me scurrying off after having licked the smear of potato salad off the waxed paper in the basket, my yellowing teeth, nibbling the last of a bit of bacon.

Pretending is all that I can do. I listened to her voice, I watched her dancing feet in their blue-grey boots. What should I have done? Should I believe in that the cold mist on the other side of the dark reflecting glass of the coffee shop, the damp, butt-strewn sidewalk on the far side of that door? Is the reality out there the one I should choose?” Or should I not have been enchanted by beauty, drunk as I was on ice water?

Or was it indeed her kindness, her smile? And all other appearances, be damned? Oh truth! I am lost!

I had only listened the night before to a song by a singer that she liked, and when I told her that I had, I caught a glimpse of who she thought I was in her dark brown eyes.

I would not disillusion her, but I am not what I appear, although I would open my face to her eyes if only I could. It is a spell. I have fallen under it as well. But I still hope that I am not entirely mist and lies. When she told me that I had made her happy by my very unheroic deed - only to listen to her song for a few minutes - I found that I felt more happiness than I had felt only moments before. And I swear to you now, I had been satisfied up till then to eat my sandwich and to notice her bared shoulder as she reached for a bottle of hazelnut syrup for a coffee drink for another customer.

Now I have lost track of where the fairy tale begins or ends. I only believe that we have no choice but to go on pretending.

But there seems to be magic about. Against all hope, I think that our happiness is real. And ice water satisfies like the finest wine when served by a kind hand.

If you are able, hold out your hand for what is real and try not to be fooled by appearances. I catch glimpses of more, but there is a spell.