Dropping the mask (write of passage number fifty-three)

As is my coffee house ritual, I whipped out three paper napkins out of the dispenser with a flourish, en route to picking my carefully spaced spot to await my order.

Something was different, but it eluded me for several seconds. The barista was  embellishing my morning mocha with an attempted heart - it looked like a persimmon - when it hit me, and I blurted:  "You have a cream and sugar station again!"

No more clinging to the door frame at a safe distance while the staff pour out the sugar and cream under customer supervision. 

At least for now.

From my accustomed seat, I took a quick visual poll to see who's still wearing masks, aside from the baristas.  Much like when British Columbia attempted to relax restrictions last summer, it's a sexual divide: the women approach the counter en masque; the men stride up bare-faced.

At present, we BC residents are moving into a strange limbo:  face-masks are "encouraged", but no longer required, and each institution has noted this on social media.  The library, for example, has added a plea to patrons that they not harass anyone choosing to wear a mask.  The latest trucker nonsense has left scars, though I'm not sure many truckers frequent the library, judging from their spelling and grasp of recent European history.

Buses are also going into "masks recommended" mode.  A few weeks ago, I ran into trouble when face coverings were still mandatory on transit.

I found myself juggling my umbrella and drug store purchases, as I stepped into the teeming rain outside the only medical lab at which I could get an appointment, some kilometres from my home. After a suffocating half-hour waiting to have some blood taken, I removed my mask to gulp in the moist, rain-scrubbed air.

Having scuttled across the crosswalk, it was only when the bus drew up to the stop that I realised my mask wasn't in my pocket.  Frantically searching as others boarded, I appealed to the driver:  "I must have dropped it somewhere!"  Seeing him hesitate, I added:  "I'm triple-vaccinated..."

Somewhere further in, I heard someone offer:  "I've got a scarf..."

The driver allowed me to board, and I found a recess in which to huddle and cling, still obsessively checking my pockets, while an older woman, standing with her shopping cart while the oblivious university and middle-school students sat, spoke soothingly to me.  I must have looked a little crazed.

The bus driver suddenly appeared at my side, holding out a plastic baggie of disposable masks.  I thanked him profusely, and feet aching, found my way to a seat.  I gazed out at the rain, and thought miserably of my pretty cloth mask, abandoned and trodden upon, somewhere on the soggy pavement.

A week later, and I would have been allowed on the bus without question.  

Now, I read that the World Health Organisation is saying we're still in the middle of the pandemic.

Yesterday, I ordered three more pretty facemarks, one in the same design of my lost and lamented one. It's cold comfort, but best not to get too comfortable anyway.