I like wearing a mask. I’ve gotten used to it. It’s a face scarf, it allows me to visit and support local businesses, the pattern is the same as a shawl worn by my aunt, the baroness, a design that features embroidered teeth, each one stitched with gold leaf, in tribute of the rapper who died last year, and in memory of my face before it changed. While masked up these days I catch myself making the most bizarre faces, which no one sees, but still I wonder: When did I give the muscles permission to just slacken, to contort with my moods and change shape with the thoughts that get pinched between the light of day and whichever nook they are seeking to escape. My mask holds it all in, like a steaming teapot beneath its ceramic lid. I am awake and vapid with the vapors of a vacant city, teeming with life, a blip in the sound file, a light on the projection screen. But I can’t help but wonder. When it’s time to take the masks off, will I succeed in squeezing my face back into shape?