By Justene Musin

I craved the attention. The idea of that sweet feeling. Like the buttercream icing on a cupcake. To have everyone perched in the palm of my hands for a short span of time. To be heard. 

Usually, I wanted anonymity. To fold into a crowd. Black and navy were the main shades of my wardrobe. They crafted a camouflage façade. 

But public speaking was my exception. 

I hadn’t done a presentation at work for about a year. My mouth was dry. I chewed a piece of peppermint gum to dispose of the tension. Pupils of mine danced back and forth as I read line by line of my speech. Folded it like origami into my blazer pocket. 

I discretely cast the gum away into the bin before I was to begin. 

The heavy patter of shoes crescendoed and after a few minutes dipped to pianissimo. Everyone was seated. Quiet chatter continued. It was time. My lungs swelled as I took a sizable breath. 

As I spoke, the words unfurled, practiced and perfected. I felt empowered, as I sensed the gaze of the audience upon me. Holding the energy of the room for a brief spell, a moment in time. Galvanized, I was the gatekeeper. The rivulet of words continued to sprint out of my mouth, in a marathon. Slow, I told myself. Breathe.  

The haze of faces blended together, like a foggy photo. I scanned across them, connecting with their eyes, but looking through them, like sun running through a window. 

The vessels of my heart were rapidly beating, but my demeanor was chill, the ultimate iceberg. 

Steering onwards to the end of my speech, I nearly tripped over a word but managed to keep my balance. Barely a drop spilt. 

Last words were shared, and applause and thank you’s followed. The next speaker took their place and began. 

As I listened, my nervous system was still in activation mode, yet to subside. The aftertaste was bitter. A salted caramel that was slightly burnt. An ephemeral feeling. Still lingering. Like a fan desperately waiting for an autograph. 

Later. Good job, nice one, colleagues said. I nodded, smiled and thanked them but the words had drifted into the distance, on a current of disconnection. 

Quickly, I fished out some mints from my desk drawer. Rattle. Click. Open. Click. Shut. Rattle as it shifted back amongst the random remnants. The mint slid on my tongue and dissolved. Better.  

My hands settled on my computer keyboard, like a pianist about to play. Pause.

In the search engine, I typed “Calming images” and selected one with a silhouette of Rangitoto Island surrounded by dawn light. 

I made it my desktop background. 

Headphones on. Their cozy cushioning compressed into my ears. I clicked play on a music track that was pre-paused mid-bridge. Let the lyrics sink in. I folded back into myself.  

                                                               *     *     *

Justene Musin’s writing has been published in Landfall, Quadrant, Colloquy, Snorkel, Ink In Thirds, 101 Words and Friday Flash Fiction. She also self-published a travel memoir, To Paris, Venice and Rome. Justene lives in Auckland, New Zealand.