The Perfect Smile

The red lights flickered.

Airi straightened her posture fixing her smile and angled herself towards the camera becoming the woman her country wanted her to be.

“Good night to those watching and /or listening,” she said voice warm and inviting. “Tonight’s top story—”

Behind the camera she felt empty.

The studio lights burned like an artificial sun, trying to peel away her secrets.

Her teleprompter fed her tragedies as if she were rehearsing to sound sympathetic, every movement made was calibrated: the angling of her chin, the pause between sentences, tying her fluffy pink hair in a ponytail as they fixed the lights to reflect her golden eyes.

Even the applause that erupted felt staged as she ended the broadcast.

Technicians crowded around her, dabbing powder over a face that no longer felt like hers.

“Good work out there.” Someone said.

“Brilliant as always Airi.” Another shouted.

She nodded automatically and walked away.

In the mirror of her dressing room, she, the famous anchor, stared back— at the beauty that came with a smile they paid her to have on her face. Her perfect lashes, glossy lips and eyes that beat fatigue. She held a smile for a second too long then it fell.

The silence was louder than the studio.

Her phone vibrating with messages she would not read yet—producers, manager, fans and men confessing to her without even knowing her. She pulled her drawer and slipped on a pair of glasses, putting on a gray sweater over her flowy pink dress and a scarf hiding the expensive underneath as she grabbed her phone, stepping through the cleaner’s exit where there were no cameras to follow her into the cold night.

Her studio was a few walks away from her favorite café, it only took reservations which means less people and more privacy. Her phone buzzed again.

“Airi where are you?” Her assistant asked sounding unsurprised by her disappearance. “The car is waiting.”

“Then let it wait; I can find my way home. Airi said hanging up, shoving the phone into her sweater as she continued walking.

“Hey… doesn’t she look familiar?” a man murmured behind her.

Airi stiffened.

“Nah,” his friend said, laughing. “Just another pretty girl.”

Airi heard and clinched her fist as she hurried away from them, but she noticed them slowly approaching causing her to walk faster.

“Hey, miss where are you hurrying to?”

“Are you by chance that news woman?” The man shouted leaning on the bike and the other threw a beer at her but missed.

Airi pulled the scarf closer to her face walking away from them while they continued teasing her. That night the air wrapped around her like mercy as Airi glanced at the sky taking a deep breath and exhaling into her palms.

“Dammit.” She whispered to herself leaning on a post staring into the busy street.

Apart from stalkers and men outside the studio preventing her from walking alone at night. To her, on the outside of the studio district, the streets changed. The crowds thinned. Neon signs gave way to warm lamplight.

And she would walk with her hands in her pockets, listening to the sounds she was never meant to hear: shopkeepers locking metal shutters, laughter spilling from tiny restaurants, a street musician packing away his instrument. But tonight, she was tense as she stared down at her phone questioning if she should call her drive or grew some courage.

Just once, for once she wanted to feel human, ordinary and not worry about an uprising scandal or how imperfect her hair is; a cup of coffee that was all she needed.

 Crossing the street staring at its billboard inhaling the rich mouthwatering aroma of roasted coffee with freshly baked pastries created a cozy and warm feeling inside her and for a few minutes, Airi Nakamura thought she would be invisible as she rushed towards the door when flung open and crashed into someone who spilled coffee on her clothes, and for the first time Airi forgot who she was supposed to be.