In the triple-digit heat, three unmasked older couples sat out on the patio under the misters, sharing a table and talking with gusto in a release of all the gossip and opinion that had been bottled up inside them for months
I awaited my take-out order near the register, wearing my bandana over my mouth and nose and my surgical mask layered over it.
The waitress wore a Betty Boop mask. She had thick, long eyelashes and blue eye shadow. I watched her as she, wearing a pair of blue surgical gloves, poured red wine into three large goblets and placed them on a tray.
She then brought over my pizza and french fries. After heading out the door with my order, I felt droplets from the misters on my neck and upper cheeks as I cut across the patio en route to my car.
I looked back through one of the windows of the restaurant, and it was like when a movie plays and there are technical difficulties or the mute button is stuck. There was no sound, only emphatic gestures and facial expressions.
