Costumes We Believe

Humor peels back the layers we carry,

Beliefs we wear without knowing,

Mistaking roles for truth,

Trusting the surface more than the substance.

A cab hums through a quiet evening,

A nun climbs in.

The driver stares—not curiosity,

Not a passing glance,

But a gaze heavy with intent.

She asks why.

He hesitates.

Decades of identity teach him caution.

She smiles.

He confesses: a fantasy, long-held,

A kiss from a nun.

Morality steps in; conditions set.

He must be single, faithful, devout.

The alley welcomes the fantasy—

Brief, enthusiastic.

Then guilt rolls in,

Soft as tears.

He admits the truth:

Married. Jewish.

The punchline should land,

Disappointment ready.

But the nun smiles,

"My name is Kevin. Halloween awaits."

Laughter erupts,

But the real lesson lingers:

We trust uniforms, titles, signals.

We see costume and believe identity.

Narratives comfort us because they fit

The stories we already know.

Kevin was not a nun.

The driver not honest.

The audience not observant.

Truth isn’t always hidden.

Sometimes, it wears a costume

We never think to question.