Monday, December 21, 2020

I get three items rather than the usual two at the supermarket. The cashier asks me if I need a bag. I say I do not. I use the wrong form of “not.” The cashier corrects me. What she says makes sense in Hebrew, but would translate to “Not ‘Not.' ‘Not.’ Not ‘Not.’” I understand what she means. After work, as I cross into the city square, I hear Christmas songs. That’s unusual. The caregivers and elders are in their usual spot at the front of the square. The music is playing from a speaker attached to a caregiver’s phone. Most of them are from outside the country. They’re unlikely to be Jewish. I head off to their left, to the store with the odd sandwiches and good sachlab. I see that they still have burekas left. I get one. The teenaged worker takes it out of the warming cart. With a metal spatula, he cuts it into eight pieces, once the long way and three times the short way. He shells the egg that had rested on top of it in the cart and slices it up. I take a grapefruit juice from the refrigerator. The burekas and juice come to thirty shekels. I hand him a hundred, fresh from the ATM. He hands me thirty back. I put the change in my wallet. We realize at the same time that there’s been a mistake. I take the change back out. He hands me another two twenties. I take the bag with the burekas to a chess table and reach inside. There’s no fork. I think of going back and getting one, but decide against it. I put my headphones back on and bring it all home.