My Mask, My Love

Trick or treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat. 

Harold spoke no words all evening as the sun set and the thin veil between the light and dark was now being lifted. He slipped on his rubbery mask of Hilary Clinton. 

Not many were out on the street. They warned the kiddos not to mingle in crowds and take candy from strangers because the virus, that relentless phantom, still lurked around every corner.

Harold headed for the door. No “See ya later,” no “Come with me, like ol’ times.” 

“Harold, you’d think you could pick a mask that’s more up-to-date. Hilary? It’s so 2016. “

“Don’t start,” he said with his hand clutching the doorknob. “It’s all I’ve got and you wouldn’t let me out all this time to get something more current.” His hand held the doorknob tightly, as if he was now in a love affair with it, with cold brass, and wouldn’t let go.”

“Well, if you’re going to go…go,” said Laverna as she unwrapped a mini-snickers bar from a bowl of unclaimed treats. 

He lifted Hilary’s plastic chin to get a breath of air. “You’re not going to say anymore about my mask?”

“What’s there to say?” Laverna bit into the snickers and stared at the TV set, sound turned off, black and white with Vincent Price and his piercing eyes in “The Tingler."

“You’re not going to say that I should be wearing a proper N95 mask? That my mask has open nostrils, that there’s a slit for the mouth? That my respiratory droplets will infect people and children? That they’ll infect me?” 

He waited for an answer. The only sound was the crinkling as Laverna unwrapped another snickers bar. She faced the TV screen with its electric white glimmer reflecting on my face, making her look like a ghost.