I read somewhere that a different version of you exists in the minds of everyone you know. Little do you know.
From a young age, I learned to make alterations, depending on who was watching.
Rehearsed gestures, smiles and tones, performed from an internal script. Sometimes I needed my energy up; sometimes I vanished into the role of the sympathetic ear.
I could mimic posture. Expressions. Tone. Laurence Olivier had nothing on me.
A night out with Mr. Hyde. Or was it Dr. Jekyll?
At forty seven, I faced the mirror. A stranger stared back.
I smiled. So did they.
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