I miss naked smiles. They hide behind masks like bandicoots in
burrows of cotton and polypropylene. Feral respiratory droplets lurk about with
deadly intent, so the face covers must stay on. But I miss the smiles.
A young woman at the delicatessen where I shop has masks that coordinate
with all her outfits. She took this consequence of our adversity and turned it
into a fashion statement.
She was wearing a red-hot mask that matched her slacks one afternoon.
As she filled my low sodium ham order, I told her how much I missed the smiles
now cloaked in their protective sanctuaries. She took a step back, pulled down her mask,
and gave me a beautiful smile.
I was stunned by how sensual that moment felt, and for the first
time, I understood veils. I imagined what it would be like to be a young man in
a culture of veils who, after months of courtship, watches his new bride as she
exposes her mouth and smiles for him, and only him.
When I ran out of ham, I grabbed my
mask and hand sanitizer and returned to the delicatessen. Should I entice the young lady to pull down
her face cover again? Would she find something perverted in my suggesting it?
If she consented, would the impact be the same, or was it a euphoria that is
rare and fleeting? These questions bombarded me as I entered the store.
I found the heavyset proprietor serving customers by himself. There
was no young woman. When it was my turn, I asked about her, and I could tell that
the mouth hidden behind his black mask was not smiling. He choked on his words.
"She went clubbing with friends. No one wore masks. Now she has
the disease and is in the hospital dying. And we can't even see her to say
goodbye." He took a deep breath to push away the lugubrious tone in his
voice, "So what'll ya have?"
Two months later, after grieving over the loss of this young soul, I
accepted that life must go on, and my life included low sodium ham. So I
returned to the delicatessen, and to my delight, there she was, filling out an
order for an elderly lady in a cat-faced balaclava.
The young woman wore a bright yellow dress with a matching face
cover that complemented her eyes and long brown hair. As she began to cut the
ham into thin slices, I made a witty remark. She looked up at me and smiled
behind her mask. I felt a sense of spiritual contentment. She escaped the
clutches of Mekal, the cat goddess of pestilence, and was alive among us, and
our bandicoot smiles with her smile safe in its color-coordinated hideaway. I
was happy, but I still miss the naked smiles.