As Mieloch gave me a taste of Rescue’s most popular techniques to tighten and refresh the Horror characters water reflection mirror Halloween shirt skin, my face covering remained firmly in place, a situation that struck me, hilariously, as a little pornographic. The mouth and nose seemed to gain an erogenous zone–like aura of the forbidden, not unlike, say, a burlesque dancer’s nipples, painstakingly concealed by tasseled pasties. “All we can do right now is our best,” Mieloch told me as she briskly massaged my jawline, carefully skirting my mask. While the spa was closed, Rescue estheticians had been consulting with clients virtually, walking them through skin-care routines to do at home. There was, however, Mieloch added, no replacement for an in-person meeting and hands-on contact: “To see an esthetician is, first of all, to take care of the heart,” she said. Apart from my husband and daughter, no other human being had touched or been touched by me in months, and there was something almost thrilling in having my corporeal self handled by a complete stranger, albeit one who was most certainly on the clock. (Could this be love? I wondered, nearly groaning as Mieloch’s oiled hands gave my aching neck a quick rubdown.) On my way out of the room, once again aware that I had a face and body, I dawdled for a moment in Rescue’s expansive, airy entrance hall, where the spa sells products to its clients. Here was blatant, seductive commerce, which in a metropolitan environment so often stands in for life, and which, for months, I had nearly forgotten about. Eyeing the goods on display, I felt suddenly flush with pleasure, if not necessarily with capital. A fleet of Byredo perfumes were arranged on one table, their pleasingly squat glass bottles promising transporting scents like Oud and Black Saffron. I lifted one of them to my nose; through my mask, I couldn’t smell a thing.