The Receptionist
By Anila Angin | 25 January 2011
Civil Service Chronicles, Money & Business, Quirks of human nature, Short Stories, Work, World of beautiful distractions
Other Woman in the Mirror by Alvina Handschuh
I first met Dina when I was at her company for a meeting.
You couldn’t say her manners were impeccable. She seemed awkward, a little flustered and rough around the edges. She called the director’s secretary to inform him that I was here. And then, as an afterthought, she asked me to sit down and wait.
I observed her quietly while waiting. She looked joyless. Did she perhaps have a large family to feed? Did she secretly wish that she could be at home listening to her children’s laughter instead of being a receptionist?
As though she heard my thoughts, she suddenly looked up at me and smiled. A warm, genuine smile. An eye smile, not just a lip smile.
I smiled back. She had some warmth in her after all.
A few months later, I was back at the company for another meeting.
Dina was gone.
“Where is she?” I asked the new receptionist.
“Oh, Dina has gone for retraining. They wanted to fire her actually. They said she was too old. She didn’t give out the right vibes to visitors. Wasn’t polished or pretty enough. But Boss felt pity for her and decided that she should go for a skills upgrade course. She has two children to support you know,” the new receptionist babbled on.
“I see.”
I won a major contract with the company, so I was back for another meeting the following month.
This time, Dina was there.
But it wasn’t the same Dina.
It took me a few minutes to register that it was her. The new Dina’s face was powdered like an eggshell. Her lips were rouged and her hair tied up in a fashionable bun. Her nails were manicured.
When she saw me, she put on a bright smile. A lip smile. Not an eye smile.
“Please take a seat sir, I will inform the boss that you are here.”
Even her manner of speaking was brighter, faster. It sounded rehearsed, well-practised.
I sat down and observed the new Dina. Her painted face. Her painted lips. Her painted smile. Her dull, sad eyes which she couldn’t paint happiness into. And secretly, I felt revolted. I wanted the old Dina back. The socially awkward, stumbling Dina.
As though she’d read my thoughts, she suddenly looked up at me and smiled. A real eye smile. Not just a lip smile.
I smiled back, relieved.
The old Dina was still there after all, behind the wall of paint.
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