My face feels rubbery under my fingers.  My teeth click together, the right side off balance.  In the passenger mirror my closed-mouth smile is almost normal.

“I think it’s wearing off.  I can smile now.”

Jake asks me to smile for him.  A previously paralyzed muscle tugs at my lips.  His eyes leave the road.  “Smile bigger,” he says.

I bare my teeth, the lips peeling away.  The taste of latex is still strong.  I recall gloved fingers and cold metal routing around my mouth with a shudder.  Jake laughs, his face breaking into a brief smile that curves at both corners of his mouth.

My eyes flick back to the mirror, the wide smile glued to my face.  Returning my gaze is a stroke victim.  The right side of my mouth is broken, pulling away from the teeth as if held there by an invisible string.  The corner forms an arrowhead that points straight across.  The left and right sides are a grotesque contrast.  There are two faces where there should be one.

The mirror thumps against the roof of the car as my attention wanders over the passing landscape.  The seat belt tugs at my chest as the car comes to a stop in front of the furniture outlet store.  We walk inside together, each of us carrying a child.  Salesmen infest the floor, marked by their flattering compliments, fake smiles, and white tags.

I try not to smile too wide at the greeter, but I fail.  Her head turns with me, a curious squint in her eyes.  Cadence’s fresh shorn bowl-cut frames her face with delightless eighties’ fashion as she runs through the recliners, popping out the footstools.  She discovered her old baby nail scissors a few days ago, chiming, “Mommy, I cut my hair,” from the bathroom.  This tragic hairstyle is the result.

Jake meanders through the rows, plopping into various choices, dwarfed by a popular style fit for Andre the Giant.  The search for an amazing and affordable recliner begins with disappointment, and ends with more than we expected.

C’est la vie.