The Maskless Meal

We entered through the back door of the restaurant. I was immediately greeted by a young hostess in a baby doll ruffled dress. She was barely twenty five, petite with long dark hair. Her dress rested just above her knees, her feet in high wedged sandals that I wondered how she would make it across the restaurant without falling. As she leaned on the hostess stand, I felt my breath catch in my throat as I suddenly was aware that I could see her lips. Her mouth was lined in deep pink shimmery lip-gloss and it moved up and down as she asked us if we had a reservation. Out of habit, I touched my tongue to my lips to see if my lips were coated in my favorite lip-gloss, a soft shade of mauve pink, with a hint of mint flavor every time I applied it. My lips remained naked though, hidden behind my pandemic mask, my face hot and flushed as my own breath constantly re-circulated.

Tonight I wore the mask that I deemed my “going out” mask. It was sparkly black and narrow, the nose wire framed the angles of my long face. The mask was hardly what one would call practical, but compared to the wedged heels the hostess was wearing, I was confident I could make it across the restaurant unscathed. I was mistaken. As our hostess led us to the table, my eyes darted in every direction, my mask hiding my tightened jaw and my overly dry mouth. I held my breath all the way to the table, walking through what felt like a landmine of maskless mouths ready to breathe on me and give me some form of the virus that had filled our world the last 18 months.

We were seated at last and I breathed out a sign of relief. Seated in our safe little table, our lifeboat, 6 feet apart, but somehow I still felt like I was drowning in a sea of maskless faces. I settled in, poured myself a cup of water from the pitcher with sweaty hands, and glanced up at my husband. We had become experts at reading each other’s eyes this past year. He took in my wide eyed expression and the sweat pooling on my forehead and asked me if I wanted a drink.

I really thought we were ready. We had celebrated the news of the world reopening and the removal of the mask mandate by booking a reservation to sit inside at our favorite Greek restaurant. We had dined outside plenty, but I had missed the cozy warmth of this space, the waiters squeezing between tables, the yelling of “Opa'' as they lit another plate of cheese on fire.

Now I sat at the table sipping my wine, my mask wrapped around my hand like a bangle bracelet in case I needed to use the restroom. I felt suffocated. The coziness that had once been so welcoming in this space now felt small and over-crowded despite the tables 6 feet apart. The constant yelling of” Opa” was no longer endearing, but loud and jarring. I could see the patio tables lining the street and longed to be outside with the quiet of nature, the quiet that had filled my life in a pandemic. The world had changed and I had changed right along with it.