I am often mistaken for the saddest woman in London. It is my face, of course, a sloping mix of jawbone and brows in collusion with disappointed eyes.
My first husband used to say my face was filled with anticipatory angst, the expression one makes before surgery and funerals. He left me for a barista whose smile was like her foamy apron: part of the job. He didn’t care about a feigned grin, as long as it was there.
I’ll admit I don’t offer my smile freely. But perfect moments do arrive; they stack like cordwood and help me remember to use the muscles in my face. And for an hour or more, I see the lightness of the everyday, and I am the happiest woman in London.
Photo: Chris JL