Wednesday, September 30th, 2020

One of the teams at work is having an online meeting. Most of the people are calling in from home. A few are here. I hear two of the ones in the office twice: first, through the open air as they speak, then, about a half-second later, through their speakers as the sound is carried to others in the chat. One, when interrupting, repeats a word incessantly until he finds a way in. His rate of repetition is about the same as the speakers’ delay. When he repeats himself, the word ping-pongs back and forth across the space for several seconds. The office is about half-empty, with the same workers as yesterday. The usual guest tries to gather us for the afternoon prayers. Even with two additional visitors, the dentist from downstairs and a friend of his, we’re still one short. We disperse. On the way home, I see more cars than I did last night. I don’t recall what level of traffic was normal before the lockdown. On the city square, a worker drags a child’s coin-operated ride, shaped like a Minion, away from the front of the cafe with the mystery sandwiches. He unlocks the gate in front of the toy store two doors down, rolls the ride inside, then locks the gate again and heads back to finish closing down the cafe. A few blocks closer to home, I see a handwritten sign from a lemonade stand, taped to the gate of an apartment house: three shekels for one cup, five shekels for two, and ten shekels for five. It’s hot enough that I would have been tempted, had I gotten there before dark.