Faces float past me — unnoticed, unrecognized, all of them mine as much as anyone’s. Each of us is a simple token in the great exchange, the unyielding economy of existence — a unit bound to expire, a cog meant to be replaced. I take his seat, just as you take mine. Go on. I really don’t mind.

Behind the glass, a heavyset figure of a man — or rather, a shell for a man. A suit of armor made of leather, metal, and wood. Beside it, swords and arrows. Who died by this blade? What battle did the suit of armor dance through, carrying its tattered banner? I asked myself these questions for less than a minute when R. came up to pull me away. We were headed to the dining hall.

I watched the afternoon Noh shows absently, humoring the art. And at the very same time, I felt my own mask cracking and falling off, my hard-polished layers peeling away. As the bitter widow on stage shed her robes and transformed back into a lovely maiden, my true self was performing its own dramatic costume change.