Masks don't take a holiday

Ahh, hotel breakfast. The only reasonable excuse to put on an alarm clock while on vacation. The sleepy and clumsy look of the patrons lining up to gobble whether it was pancakes and croissants or eggs and bacon before going about their day. Clara sipped her tea slowly, people watching. Bob was still in their room, headset on, fingers tapping away on his work laptop. She had slipped out early to enjoy the morning alone.

Behind the counter, the receptionist greeted each guest with bright, practiced cheer. She nodded, smiled, and waved; her composure never faltered, yet when no one else was looking, Clara caught a flicker of fatigue in her eyes. Servers weaved between tables, trays balanced with steady hands, voices smooth, gestures careful. Near the kitchen doorway, soft whispers passed between them.

Her gaze wandered to a man fumbling with syrup, a child spilling juice. Minor chaos met polite indifference. She noticed the subtle ways people adjusted: a napkin dabbed at a spill, a tray tilted slightly, a gentle smile masking exasperation.

Out in town, she wandered past shops and cafés, the scent of fresh bread mingling with faint traces of coffee, drifting in and out of small stores in search of something she could take home: perhaps a ceramic bowl, a framed print, or a handwoven throw that would sit well on the corner of her sofa on quiet evenings spent binging a Netflix series.

Shop windows reflected a few passersby, catching them adjusting sunhats, smoothing sleeves, or straightening collars. On a nearby bench, a group of older women exchanged folded hands and occasional nods, their conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. A chair pushed back from a café table, a glass left half-full, as if its occupant had stepped away for a moment. A man swept the stoop outside a shop, broom scratching lightly against the stone; he paused to straighten a potted plant, the leaves brushing the wall. She noticed a couple in matching summer shirts pausing to read a menu posted outside a café, their shoulders brushing. She ducked into a narrow shop, shelves crowded with ceramics and glassware, running her fingers along the cool surfaces and imagining the pieces at home, tucked among cushions and soft lamplight.

In one boutique, a sales assistant attended a customer with steady cheer, her hands gesturing politely, smile unbroken. When another shopper, lips pressed and voice edged with impatience, asked for the manager, the assistant’s eyes flicked toward the doorway. The manager appeared moments later, calm and collected, handling the request with practiced ease. Once the customer left, Clara caught the subtle exhale, the momentary slackening of shoulders, an almost invisible release before composure returned.

Clara apparently had plenty of time to kill, or at least it felt so. Back in the hotel room, Bob sat on the little balcony, headset on, windows open, curtains drifting softly in the breeze as he continued his work call. She discreetly placed her small bag on the desk, lingered by the window for a moment, then reached for her earphones. Music filled her ears, steady and familiar, and she tied her shoelaces, letting the rhythm set the pace as she stepped out for her run through the peaceful countryside streets.

The rhythmic thud of her sneakers against the pavement felt almost meditative, a steady pulse that wove together with the soft whisper of the wind on her face. Sunlight spilled between gaps in the trees, dappling the road in gold and green. The faint scents of freshly cut grass and blossoms drifted past her, carrying traces of the village waking around her.

Passing low stone walls and hedges, she noticed the small details along the way: a bicycle propped against a fence, its chain glinting in the light; a laundry line swaying lightly in the breeze; a cat crouched in a shadow, tail flicking, eyes tracking her movement before vanishing into a garden. Her route took her past the school parking lot. Leaning against her car with a cigarette in hand, a woman that looked like a teacher held a precious moment of stillness, eyes briefly closing, inhaling smoke before slipping it away.

She returned to the hotel once again, the soft thud of her sneakers against the carpet fading as she passed the empty lounge. She took off her earphones and held her room key on hand as she entered the elevator. When the doors opened again, from the hallway came the faint click of luggage wheels and the muted conversation of housekeeping in the distance. Arriving into the room, she stepped into the bathroom, mirror fogged slightly from the shower, droplets clinging to the glass. She smoothed her hair, dabbed a little colour at her lips, adjusted the red dress she had chosen for the evening. Each small gesture deliberate, her hair flicked over her bare shoulder, her eyes catching her reflection as she turned slightly, noting the lines of the fabric. Bob was probably at the hotel gym, releasing tension, still hadn’t run into Clara since the morning.

Later, at the restaurant for dinner, the golden glow from lamps reflected on polished glasses and silverware. The soft clink of cutlery against plates mingled with muted conversation around them, low hums of laughter and chair legs scraping gently against the floor. Bob had placed a large bouquet beside her on the table, petals bright against the tablecloth. He arranged the chairs, adjusted the napkins, and leaned in slightly, attentive without drawing attention to himself. Clara’s eyes caught these small motions: a tilt of his head toward her, a brief smile, and she responded with a smile, eye contact, occasionally touching his forearm.

They exchanged few words, short sentences, fragments of conversation that left space for gestures. After moving the breadbasket between them aside, Bob poured wine. She noted the attentiveness in his motions, the subtle effort to occupy the present moment.

“You look gorgeous tonight,” he said, voice low, almost casual.

Clara’s smile curved. With a soft nod, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.