What Angel said about my little play doesn't bother me a bit. He probably thinks it does. He probably thinks I've been moping about it underneath, trying to cover it up with all my smiles today. Wesley doesn't have a clue either, but I'm a good actress; in fact, I'm the best actress in the world.

My career started early. You could almost say I've been in the business since the beginning. My parents were probably my first real audience, and from then on, they kept on coming, filling the seats until it was a full house and I was giving the performance of my life to the entire first grade class.

"I am the best/I am cool/I couldn't care less/I know what I'm doing."

It's not so much of a skill as it is an ability-keeping a certain narrowness to the eyes, like you're wearing blinders, flipping things off that you don't care to deal with. Holding your head up like you're made out of something inflexible and unbreakable, like one of those dolls.

I'm the best actress in the world, because they think I know what I'm doing.

Nora and I, well we're a lot alike. She's pretty. She dresses herself up like a toy, and everybody, even the people closest to her think she's a hood ornament. Like the icing on Torvald's cake; the wrapping on the present. Little knick-knack that makes things nice to look at, but in a pinch, is the only thing that's truly expendable.

Like a pretty little secretary running a detective agency. It's only by accident that I got the visions. Only by being an accessory-by being present, that I got anything that mattered. Wesley feels inadequate, but just months ago, I was the one in his place-the one who didn't need to be there and wasn't invited. Now I'm just a poor reflection of what Doyle was.

And I pretend to fit in and act like I run the place. Which I do, sort of. Just look at the classy business cards that I made. I can show them to people, and tell them I got this place off the ground. And I did.

Sort of.

And my life is good, I think, looking in the mirror at my pretty silver eyeshadow and designer sweater. How could my life be anything less than fantastic when I'm smiling like I am?

I wonder if I could ever do what she did, to keep my face looking young and perfect forever, like it is now, but I dismiss the consideration immediately. If I was a vampire, I wouldn't be able to see myself smiling at the mirror and know that I was ok.

If I was a vampire, I would have to look at my true reflection; to have my insignificance held up before me, right in my face, no flinching back; no smoothing over it with makeup. I'd have to see what was really there on the inside, and I couldn't do that.

I may be a good actress, but I'm no philosopher.