Monday, October 12, 2020

The line of people waiting for takeout at the city’s most popular shawarma joint is gone. It had formed there every weekday evening throughout the lockdown. Tonight, the doors are closed almost all the way. A worker sits at a makeshift booth several meters to the right. A sign on the booth reads “Orders for delivery people only.” A cluster of scooters and electric bikes surrounds it. Another worker shuttles back and forth between the shop and the booth, darting inside the half-open door and retrieving the orders. The large bakery is open, as usual, but without seating. I go inside and get what I think is a cheese sandwich and a bottle of soda. I take it to the city square. The last few caregivers and elders are dispersing for the evening. At the toy store, someone is yelling at someone else in English to shut the lights off and leave, already. I sit down at a stone table with a built-in chess board. I bite into the sandwich. It isn’t what I expected. I remember that the word that I had thought was “cheese” actually means “omelette.” It’s good. A whole wheat bun and the usual vegetables surround a flat layer of chilled scrambled eggs, with a sauce that I can’t identify. As I eat, I see a woman quietly going around to the trash cans and digging out plastic bottles. People can return them to stores for about a dime apiece. She's halfway across the square when I finish my supper. A coterie of cats surrounds her. She bends down and places some sort of food on the ground for them. I leave my soda bottle next to a trash can, in her line of sight. I walk over to a small grocery store to get a frozen candy bar. The owner sees me, nods, and taps the side of his face. I have forgotten to put my mask back on. I do. I buy the dessert and sit down on a stone wall to eat it. It’s a cool night. There aren’t any flies.