A Westward Journey
Sophie’s nose itched. What was the protocol with face itching on public transit, anyway? Do you try to scratch through the thick mask? Stick a finger through the bottom seal and hope no one thinks you’re picking your nose? Continue to ignore it and hope the burning itchy torture recedes on its own? The latter had been her main strategy for the past forty-two minutes and the outlook was… bleak. Maddening, even.