C A N D I D
When he first taught her how to laugh and smile and act, God, she could act. She was superb at feigning felt emotions to represent a flawless facade of grins and giggles. Her first time wasn't even that bad, he'd thought — a little rough around the edges because she'd just learned, but it was a sublime performance all the same and the mission was done smoothly and effectively.
Though he did wonder...
Did she ever do it genuinely?
There was an air to her smiles, like something was amiss in them. No matter how much of a fantastic actress she was, he was a keen observer, and he detected falsity in her. Not like it mattered much in the final equation; she got by damn well, and nobody suspected a thing of her.
He wondered if he might ever be the recipient of one of her true smiles. Imagine his surprise when he actually was.
It was a normally frosty winter morning — they hung out together by his car, just conversing. He glanced up at the Section Two building, and, without meaning to provoke any reaction at all, he said, "'Looks like a government gingerbread house from here."
She laughed. She laughed so hard she doubled over, clutching her sides, filling the air with her mirth. When she managed to open her eyes, she looked at him, and he saw something reflected in the green. Something that wasn't there before. Something genuine; candid, earnest, unfeigned, valid.
Her laughter died away. "What is it?" she inquired, leaning forward a little.
"Nothing," he replied, shaking his head.
She smiled.
And it was true.