A little sad love story

　I am Miss Mask, at least everyone lives in this small street calls me so. Dad and I have moved here 17 years since his business went bankrupt and the divorce. At the end of the street is where our dilapidated tiny house stands, 10-square-metre, including one bedroom and a palm-size toilet, which is originally the storeroom of dad’s restaurant. After falling into disrepair, the roof leaks as long as it rains. We also have to share an aisle as the kitchen with our neighbor. When I open the curtain that separating my dad’s bed from mine, my face has already been painted with exquisite and heavy makeup, lightest foundation, two-layer false eyelashes, eyeliner and nude lipstick, yet no any blush. Putting on my casual clothes, I leave home.　I walk through the narrow street gracefully as our neighbor, a mid-aged widow with high cheekbones sitting in front of her house in her pajama. She stops eating sunflower seeds and stares at me when I pass by. I don't have any feeling about this rich lady although my dad often complains that kitchen things are missing. I even don't feel angry with her for sneaking the quilts we bask outside and secretly scoffing at my dad, calling him a cowardly, worthless loser. Conversely, I feel pity for her and her poor husband who died a few years ago in a workplace accident; therefore, she has no chance to show off how successful and generous her husband is. I walk on, Eric is leaning his fatty head against the window peeking at me. He is one of my dad’s friends. Viewing from the appearance, this old bachelor seems kind, reliable and diligent. Dad used to borrow money from him for my tuition fee or household expenses; in return, dad had to help him with the housework before paying the money back, ranging from cooking to washing the toilet. He allegedly skips showers for two months and collects hundreds of p**n videos in his bedside table.　I don't remember exactly when I started wearing thick makeup. Seemingly, whenever I pass, all the people here will stop whatever they’re doing and look oddly at me as if I am an animal in the zoo. Old inhabitants usually whisper about my useless dad; new arrivals will join them but are more curious about my real face. I across the grocery at the street corner. It is no surprise a group of people who gather together for gambling in front of the store immediately stop. A couple of them are my dad’s friends, buying houses from my dad at a bargain price after he falling into crisis. I can hear the shop owner sneers “poor wretch”. I feel safe and strong hiding behind my pale face. Everyone here wears a mask and they call me Miss Mask.