Friday, April 24, 2020

The take-out counter at the local cafe is open. I order a salad. The worker frowns. “No. No kitchen. Just coffee. Hot or iced.” I ask for an espresso. “Double? Long? Short?” Double. “Eight shekels.” I pay him. He says something that I don’t quite catch. He pauses, repeats the phrase, then, seeing that I still don’t react, says it in English: “Go to the back. He brings it to you.” I walk around to the parking lot behind the cafe, just beyond the trash area and the rest room. Several people are already waiting, standing around in no perceptible order. Another man opens the back door and brings drinks to two of them. He remembers who is getting what. I would easily get that wrong. On his third trip out, he hands me my espresso. I walk to a safe distance away from everyone else. Balancing my cup on the edge of a planter, I pour in the sweetener that I had gotten up front. I pull down my mask and slowly sip my drink. It’s the first espresso I have had in a month. It is good.