Grotesque

...I walked up into the sound booth--a platform at the back of the chapel, elevated six feet and enclosed around the front by a short wall, such that it forms a semi-open enclosure furnished with requisite desk and rack for equipment.
At least, the booth will provide isolation on most occasions; if sitting, the "sound man" becomes invisible. Some consider this a problematic design for a sound booth in a church; it's too easy, they say, for him to block out what's going on in the room. He can, though. hear those immediately on the other side of the thin wall quite easily, even if they can't see him. Today, I heard somber discussion. Something about the lights.
As I sat down and gave a soft sigh of relief--the funeral setup finished, only the dull procession of the service itself remaining--there was a knock on the back door of the booth.
"One minute" I called, as my knees creaked in anticipation of another jaunt down the too-short stairs.
A man dressed in official funary garb (most wear dark navy or gray to a funeral, you can tell the officials because they're wearing black) was at the door, and asked me if I could dim the lights in the chapel any further. I invited him up the stairs (creak, creak, creak, creak, creak) and showed him the dimmer panel for the stage. "oh, no, those are fine" he said; "I mean for back here, these fluorescent lights are kind of glaring on her." He motioned over the edge of the booth.

I looked down to see the pale, waxy face of dear Mrs. P., right on the other side of that wall.Her Jowls were in full effect from this angle, something like an albino bullfrog with lipstick and a shock-white wig. The greenish-white of the valence lights were indeed making the situation worse than it needed to be.