My life after graduation was as I had dreamed it would be since I was a little girl. I was not the brightest of my class, but I had kept up with my work, and received fair evaluations for my needlework and cooking. I kept up the best figure I could, despite my cursed bone structure, and even passed decently in Cultured Conversations. A nice enough young man proposed not a few days after graduation, and we enjoyed our newlywed flutters. We had tea by the porch every evening from four to five before dinner, and every Thursday would be date night. It was a humble life, but a good one. 

Although I have a decent life, for which I am truly grateful, there was admittedly a gaping gap between mine and Cassia’s. Her family was much wealthier, her house was way bigger, and her skinny, long legs drew even more attention now, that they were corseted in the glaring white bodysuit. It’s common for women with suits to fall out of touch with those of us who have not been so lucky, living such different lifestyles. But, in spite of the invisible barrier between us, Cassia and I still remained old childhood friends. It was a blessing to be able to continue to share our lives, if only to live vicariously through her stories. Plus, I was grateful for humble - for normal. 

Being a normal woman in this society was a blessing. Normal women received their own masks and had a family. I sometimes shudder to think about what happened to my classmates who did not pass inspection upon graduation. The Maskless. They would never wed. When such thoughts occasionally visited to haunt my memories, I would dig my head just a little deeper into the crevice of my husband’s neck and soothe myself within his arms and his scent. 

Of course, I didn’t get to spend as much time with Cassia now as I did in school. We no longer were protected by the mile high walls, keeping us hidden from the unwanted, dangerous gazes of men. Now, our husbands (and our masks) took over the wall’s function, and we never left home without either of them. However, there was an exception: every Sunday our husbands would drop us off at church two hours before the service so the women could help set up. We enjoyed this little bit of freedom, where we could take our masks off for a while. Within the sturdy church walls, we transported ourselves back to our school-girl days: that is, everyone but Cassia. As we made lunch for the men that they would eat after the sermon, we giggled about the latest gossip (that girl Janine that used to be in their class, the one that didn’t receive a mask, Portia was sure that she saw her lurking outside her neighbour’s trash a couple of nights ago, just before daybreak), shared tips about household chores (“Vodka,” said Natalie, “Vodka is how you get rid of lipstick stains” she whispered to Willow), and how to keep our husbands happy (Raine always had the television turned to the sports channel before her husband came home, and would hand him a nicely chilled glass of whisky on the rocks not soon after. She swore that this way, her husband would be out like a light by exactly 9:15pm, and she didn’t have to miss Oprah which starts at 9:30. - But that woman though, how old was she now? A hundred and twenty?). We did all this with our masks set off to the side, letting the cool breeze from the window lap around our faces for once, and breathing in the unfiltered air all crisp and light, not all hot and dense like how it got underneath our masks. But Cassia kept hers on. She claimed it was simply “her husband’s privilege, and her husband’s only, to see her bare face” and that she would protect his right, “just as he protects my wellbeing,” but we all knew that it was to make sure everyone saw the latest updates on her mask that cost as much as some of the girls’ monthly expenses on groceries.  

When Cassia showed up every Sunday, she would be the talk of the town for the entire week following, until she made herself old news the very next Sunday again and again. Her suit always had the cutting-edge technology that every girl in the town was longing for. Once, she showed up head to toe in the color of deep purple, studded with elegant beads of light like a twilight sky tinged with just the last bits of the sun. The entire week, women showed up here and there with a mysterious purple flush on their arms and legs, looking as if they ate a funny fish for lunch. They all denied to know what was happening to their skin, but the convenience stores just happened to be all sold out on purple hair dye that week. Cassia showed up with all the latest updates of her audio functions too that decorated her voice in the most elegant ways, like that time when each of her spoken syllables would sound like the reverberation of harp strings or the gentle sound of waves breaking on the beach. Each week, it was another fashion show of trinkets none of the rest of us could really afford, and thus an opportunity for us to test our artistic creativities - on a budget. 

Sunday Brunch, by the grace of God was liberation. As much as I loved being the dutiful wife and loving mother, it was nice to be away from it all, just for a little moment. Most of all, I looked forward to catching up with Cassia and hearing her stories of sultanic luxury - the stuff of fables. Until one day, Cassia didn’t show up Sunday morning. A mild case of the flu, her husband explained to the pastor. Ever since then, more and more days would come up when her health seemed to get the better of her, until eventually, she stopped coming at all. 

Months passed, and just as the rest of us girls were getting truly worried, Cassia punctually entered the church door in time for the sermon. “Oh now she is too good to work in the kitchen with the rest of us?” Portia said, rolling her eyes, and the rest of us nodded and also rolled our eyes. Pastor Warren concluded the day, with his trademark prolonged a-men. Careful not to look in the direction of Cassia, my pride still stinging from her betrayal, my husband and I made our way to the door, when someone took my hand. 

“Please won’t you come over tomorrow so we can catch up? I’ve missed you,” Cassia’s voice sang. 

As much as I resented her lack of an explanation of her recent offenses, we would not worry our husbands with our trivial affairs (nor would I decline the opportunity to witness for myself her mansion of a house). I accepted gracefully, and called my stylist for an urgent waxing appointment. 

Her home was even more impressive than she had let on. Her living room alone was the size of our own home and it was bejeweled in the most remotest of places that a person could imagine. Even the bathroom was like a sultan’s personal chamber with its tiger shaped door knobs letting out a soft growl with each touch. Cassia prepared an elegant afternoon tea with tuna-cucumber sandwiches decorated elaborately in fresh herbs and cookies infused with exotic spices. But the food was only for our maskless husbands, of course. We conversed amiably over the food and laughed politely at each other’s mildly funny jokes. 

Cassia’s husband got up to give us a tour of the living room, introducing us to his great grandfather’s portrait that was 12 feet high. As my husband and I nodded along to the explanation of the accomplishment of this grand figure, from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Cassia slip a sandwich down the sleeve of her dress. I put the thought out of my mind as quickly as it came. How ridiculous to put fish down our clothes. We sat back down and conversed some more, then it was time to go home. 

As I made to leave through the door that my husband was holding open for me, Cassia once again grabbed my hand. I chuckled nervously, telling her that I would see her on Sunday for the sermon and attempted to pull my hand away, when she clenched on tighter. 

“Darling, you’re hurting me,” I said as I continued to pull away. 

“Ow, Cassia, let go.” She held on even tighter. I could feel her stare burn through our masks, but her face was impossible to read as the facial features of the device continued to smile pleasantly at me. 

“Cassia, please!” I yanked my hand away, confused and frightened of what was happening, when with a small click, the hand of her suit dropped to the floor. The plastic still shone like a diamond, the way she had set it. But when I looked up to see her again, I screamed at the sight of a shivering gray bony hand that after a few seconds, flopped like a dead fish. 

Sunday inevitably came around, and I attempted to hide my nervous, twitching fingers before entering the kitchen. But as I prepared to go inside, I heard Cassia’s laughter as twinkling as ever beyond the door. I went inside and with a sigh of relief I saw that, as always, her skin was glittering, and her hair was dyed a deep blue-black, which the girls were already eyeing greedily to attempt to mimic the coming week. 

She saw me enter, and swiftly came over, again taking my hands into her own. I jerked involuntarily. How absolutely mortifying, she could just die in embarrassment, she giggled apologetically. I smiled back at her, and patted her hands gently in return. I was sorry too, I shouldn’t have overreacted so. Was her suit alright? I looked down, bracing myself for the damage I had done, but her hand was flawless. The perfectly smooth shell shone with a liquid finish. Just fine, see? she replied, and turned it over to show me the 360 degree view of it. Thank goodness, I replied, and walked with her over to the rest of the girls. 

We chatted and gossiped and worked like any other Sunday, many of us glad that Cassia was back with us. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Cassia was different though. It wasn’t until after the sermon that my husband and I were in the car going home that I realized, the faint lines that once marked where Cassia’s body suit had opened were gone. The suit had been sealed completely.