Sunday, April 19, 2020

The first bus stop that I pass on my walk to work is roped off. Someone has placed bricks on each of its seats. I wonder if this is so that fewer people will ride the buses. As I get closer, I see that it is under construction. The bricks have been pried up from underneath it. A hole reaches deep into the sand where they were. A few doors down, across from the produce market and the laundry, a small truck blocks the entrance to the road. A man in a yellow vest sits in the intersection on a folding chair. Other than that, I think that everything looks normal. Then I realize that I'm not noticing the minimal traffic, the people in masks and gloves, and the dances of avoidance that keep passersby far enough apart. A few more people than before are at work. A small pack of masks sits on the reception desk. We don’t wear them in the office, but some people take them when they leave. To my surprise, no line has formed at the supermarket in the evening. The door is unguarded. I go in and get a few things, partly to restock what I used from my quarantine stash in my week at home. The guard is back when I leave, taking people’s temperatures before he lets them in. I pass a family on a narrow shortcut between two larger streets. As they approach, without masks, they fill the width of the path. Seeing me, they shift into a straight line against the bushes on their side as I press against the wall on mine. I look back after they pass and see them form again into a shapeless cluster as they walk.