Smoke and Mirrors by Sara Travis

When I was twelve years old, my Uncle Tom took me to the circus. It was late, much later than I was usually permitted to stay out, after the dark had unfurled its wings, blanketing the tents in an inky blue. We walked through the high, velvety flaps of the tent, and past the place where dreams began. A large, circular stage dominated at the centre, its floor a swirl of red and black. Scattered around were cushions in various sizes, and spectators were dragging them as close to the stage as they could manage.

To the side of the stage stood a lady in a cage. Clusters of candles littered the ground by her feet, and the air was thick with a heavy, perfumed fog. She wore a leotard in the same, deep red as the walls of the tent, and she was dancing, though you couldn’t really call it dancing. She moved her body slowly to the soundless music, but it went further than that. As though the blood that ran through her veins was laced with the notes, her heart beating in time to the melody. Her face was covered in an elaborate mask, a deep, dusky red, covered in intricate swirls and encrusted with sparkling gems. And yet I felt the full, breathless pull of the beauty underneath, drawing me closer until I stood at her feet.

The mask shrouding her face slipped, and for a split second I caught a glimpse at what was beneath. Silky, porcelain skin. Full, ruby lips. Dark, rich eyes. She was beautiful; perhaps, too beautiful. In the wrong light I thought her features might look harsh, dangerous, frightening even. But in the soft glow of the candlelight she seemed to hang upon the cheek of the night, like a jewel. I found myself beguiled by the truth I saw in her face. We locked eyes, and it was as though all of my most secret dreams had somehow been set free.

I never saw true beauty until that night. I have not seen it since.