Thursday, May 21, 2020

Down the aisle from me, someone speaks quietly on the phone in a language that I can’t identify. The pitch of his voice is close to the resonant frequency of our cement-walled cubes. The sound pulses like an electrical hum. Its volume changes along with its pitch. A text message breaks my attention. My health plan is finally offering home delivery of medications. There’s a small charge, but it’s free if you’re over 75. On the way to work, I see that the building under construction is close to complete. A crane lowers bundles of what look like paving bricks into its front yard. On my way home, the crane is gone. The stacks of bricks are taller than I am, hiding the building from view. In the produce store, no one else, even the shopkeeper, is wearing a mask. I splurge on items for next week’s JoeBowls: fresh spinach, cherries, and dried cranberries. I still need to get more fava beans and rice. I could save money if I ordered lunch from work, but these are a pleasant break. At the register, the shopkeeper rings me up then frowns. He takes what he’s already tallied out of the shopping bag and starts again. This time it comes to fifteen shekels more. I can’t complain. I know that he’s actually rung some things up for less than the marked prices. When I get home, I put the air conditioner on just long enough to air out the room. The air is pleasantly cool. Tomorrow, it should be cooler outdoors.