By Laura Black
It happened again. It was one of those cloudless, light sweater days. My husband and I savored a break from the recent run of high humidity by stopping for coffee at an outdoor café on the Eastern Shore. I inhaled the aroma of freshly ground beans and wavered between cappuccino and mocha latte when our waiter appeared. He wore tight-skinned, designer denims, a black, clingy t-shirt, and a face mask that hung below his nose.
At about 6’2” with dark curly hair, he was hot. I would not have declined a peak at his pecs. But during this pandemic, how dare he expose his nose.
I don’t want to see anybody’s nose.