the perils of

I relish blissfully slow Sunday mornings.  I'm in a nearly-empty cafe along Samping Avenue in Butuan City. The only other patron is this middle-aged guy in a baseball cap, sitting by himself at the communal table, sipping on a hot mug of peppermint tea. As usual, I came here alone, with no plans other than writing a blog post and cooling off with an icy coffee. Since it's just the two of us in this wide cafe, sitting far apart, I feel safer taking off my mask and exposing my face. My usual orangey eyeshadow and light peach blush have melted from the intense heat of the commute, and big fat beads of sweat cling to my forehead, nose, and cheeks. I hurriedly dab at my face before anyone notices my disgustingness. But the other dude is focused on his laptop and doesn't seem to care. I'm always so conscious about my own sweatiness. A college classmate once told me that I was the sweatiest girl he'd ever met in his life. Um, thanks. That was certainly a good comment to he