Despite opening all the windows;
despite sitting at opposite ends of a long couch;
despite wearing face shields, masks, and latex gloves;
I can still smell the alcohol in my date’s
hand sanitizer. While we two strangers struggle
with this biographical back-and-forth, I can’t stop staring at you:
sky-blue surgical mask. Rough three-day scruff rubs against
your soft fabric. His warm, humid breath pulls you in, then
pushes you out. What’s hiding behind you?
A pair of dimples or a scar on his upper lip? A mole on his left cheek
or a cleft chin? How about a gap between his two front teeth? I
imagine teeth as white as the back of you. I want him to touch me,
but his fingers adjust you, instead. I await the day when I can take you
off his face; then stretch, stitch, tie until you and my mask become a
kite we’ll let soar so high you’ll get to see the Alps.
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