It comes with a second job

Two costs come with this offer, and you're only being shown one. The first is ten minutes. One cigarette, one time, back to normal after. The second is what tomorrow would ask of you. You'd have to start hiding again.

You know that job. The story you keep straight. The timing you work out ahead. The small lie you guard because a bigger one stands behind it. And the half second before you answer 'how's it going', while you arrange your face. That job never paid you once.

It runs in the back of your mind in every room, on every walk home, at every get together. Some of the tiredness you blamed on other things may have been that. The cigarette billed it as ten minutes and handed you a night shift. Clock out now. Go wash your hands and face. Nothing to check and nothing to cover. Just clean.

Look up at the mirror while the water's still on you. No story to manage. No face to arrange. God saw right past every cover story, and He never stopped wanting you close. Next time someone asks how it's going, you'll just answer.