A few drinks at Hot Dance, followed by dinner and scintillating conversations with someone we barely know, followed by late-night dancing, everyone was left exhilarated and extremely cheerful. Under the cover of the night, there was something relaxing and liberating that strung up atmosphere here, which gave us a strange feeling that we could break any fretters we were bound to.

The man, on the next side, began to attack me with some fulsome flattery. With his dark, good-looking face expressing a kind of humorous desperation, he was playing the perfect part of a devoted admirer. But for a person as cynical as I am, even the alcohol combined with his act of pretence was still far from enough to shake my lack of belief system. Good money bet that he even could not think of my face the next morning.

My attention was drawn to the other side of the table, where another show was on staging dominated by my dear friend Erica. She possessed a dazzling sexual power that she could exploit to her full advantage if she chose to. This gathering was for her to celebrate absolute nothing. Now she was taking her best shot with a hot advertising man and the latter obviously fell for her charm immediately. Under the cover of the night, Erica seemed to have everything. Great dress, killer smiles, and handsome company. With her face lit up, and her eyes shining like crystal, she seemed to tell the whole world that she was the luckiest woman who had nothing to wish for. Looking into her eyes, I was hit suddenly by a question: what sorrow, what bitterness, what despair could lay behind her beautiful smile? How amazing such an improper question cropped up like that! The music suddenly seemed to be too loud, so I went towards lady's room for a temporary escape.

Almost as soon as I retreated into a place of peace, magical power outside died and things resumed their normal proportions. In the mirror, I saw a stranger's image. It was the image of a woman—tired looking---with a face so uncertain of itself and emotions that it hardened to a poker's smooth. Aloof and cynical, a defense mechanism, to conceal the feeling of insecurity. Is that who I am? So who was the woman in the daylight----hardworking, easygoing and always cheerful? Human being is so good at faking. We can fake our hair color, teeth, nails, and ages. Modern society of its infinite diversities raised the barriers of faking. Is there any possible that We went so far that We began to fake our own personalities? A weak and inefficient person might act strong for fear of being bullied. A powerful person could fake being stupid so no one would be wary of him. Then for a time, we get to believe in it ourselves and began to forget what kind of person we really are.

Erica broke in and cut down my path of thoughts. She was not the same girl outside. It was something physical, a great wave of anger and misery and despair seemed to emanate from her, which had transformed her into another person.

" Gave me your cell phone." Erica said, her voice rising with the note of hysteria.

" Why don't use your own?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Because he didn't answer! He must be with her, that bitch. Give me your damned phone!" Erica was on the edge of breakdown, and she trembled so much that as if she would fall into pieces at any minute.
"What the hell did you want to say to him? It's not some big news that he was with someone." I knew how cruel my words had sounded, but long years as a friend of Erica had prepared me to be as cruel as possible sometimes, so I continued: " Stop like that, you knew Leo, all these childish outburst would have a most unfortunate effect upon him. You gave him the call, and it was all over."

" Yes, that's what I want! I got so over with him. Would you give me your cell or not?" She raised her voice to a kind of hysterica scream, as if it was the only way to stress the authenticity of her words.
Looking at her, I was afraid I didn't have the heart to tell her that such break-up-with-Leo thing was just like an impossible mission for her. Handed her my cell, I said calmly: " Go ahead, give him the call. And go out to pick up any men outside to stay with, at least you don't care a damn for them so you would never get hurt like that. "

My words penetrated her armor of pretence, and she collapsed in my arms. There was a time all the soothing phrases in the world seemed to be so colorless and powerless. Without another word, I handed her a cigarette, and she took and lit it. Suddenly I saw her figure in the mirror, so lonely and miserable, totally unlike the happy woman outside a few minutes ago. If happiness could be faked, whatelse we could not pretend to? Or in this complicated world, the act of master has become something we have to master to survivie?