The fluorescent lights in that discount clothing store… they really do expose everything, don't they? Not just the dust motes on the display racks, but… other things. Things you keep tucked away. It's part-time, of course. Something to keep busy now that the kids are grown and the house is paid off. And, honestly, to supplement the pension a bit. The expectation, in my suburban enclave, is that one remains productive, contributing. Idle hands, you know. So, I take pride. Or, I *did* take pride. Arranging the haphazard piles of graphic tees, folding the jeans into precise rectangles, even color-coding the children's section, despite its futility. It felt… correct. Orderly. A small, manageable corner of the world where I could exert control. And then… this week. A shift. A slow, almost imperceptible cessation of effort. The jeans remained unfolded. The tees, a jumble. A mental resistance. A quiet refusal. And then Margaret, the manager, she says, “Oh, you're such a reliable team member, always keeping things looking sharp.” And I smiled. Nodded. Even managed a small, almost imperceptible flush of… shame? Disgust? It felt like a diagnosis. Reliability. Sharpness. External markers. The internal mechanism, however, was in a state of deliberate disengagement. A conscious choice not to correct the chaos. To allow the entropy. And yet, the commendation arrived. Based entirely on the perceived image, not the internal reality. It's a disconnect. A schism. And the thought then, a quiet hum beneath the din of piped-in pop music, was… so this is how it works. This is how it has always worked. The performance of diligence, mistaken for actual diligence. And the accompanying sensation, not of guilt, but a kind of weary… amusement. A quiet, almost defiant satisfaction. To be lauded for something I was actively choosing *not* to do. It raises questions. About every other compliment I've received. About the entire edifice of perceived competence. And the commute home, past the manicured lawns and identical mailboxes, felt… heavier than usual. Not because of the traffic, but because of the… realization. Or, perhaps, the confirmation. It really is all just… a show.