Toothless

 

It was a perfect day for music in the park, sunny but not overly warm as it soon would be, with a light breeze and a sky filled with fluffy clouds. I packed my camera, tucked a just in case ten dollar bill in my jeans pocket, slipped my cigarettes into my purse, and headed out to walk the three short blocks to the park. I came to the entry gate at the precise moment I realized I'd forgotten my earrings – I always feel undressed without them – but I didn't fancy walking back and back
again and no one would notice except me so I muddled on. It was a good half hour later when I realized, as fate would have it, that I'd also forgotten my teeth. By then, I'd already seen (from a distance, praise the Lord) several people I knew and the zydeco band was in full swing. Leaving didn't seem to be a practical option so I cursed under my breath for not having a mask with me then decided that the next best thing was to brazen it out. I would use the camera as a shield whenever possible and keep my distance from any faces I recognized. Later I could always claim faulty vision. No one but me would know that my sunglasses were prescription for distance. It wasn't much of a plan but it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances. Besides, I reasoned, fellow photographers would never distract me and other friends were almost always considerate and if I looked like I was at work, they would generally not want to interrupt me. Long as I didn't see anyone I knew huggably well, I thought, I just might pull it off.

It wasn't to be. Covid has kept us all so isolated for so long that seeing a familiar face on this quite beautiful day couldn't help but be cause for celebration. I swear I saw nearly everyone I know in this city and it wasn't possible to keep them all at bay. Ah, vanity.