Saturday, August 22nd, 2020

The dog wanders up to me at the Sabbath cafe, sniffs my hands, and licks my face. I laugh. I’m still wearing my mask. It hops up and puts a paw on my lap. The dog is big, about the size of a german shepherd. It may still be a puppy. Its paws are too big for its head. When the server comes over, it turns to stare at her and growls. I tell the dog in English that it’s ok, that she’s a friend. It stops growling. I pat it on the back. It steps back down onto the ground. The voice at the other end of its leash says, in English, “You’re good at this.” It runs in the family. He sits down at the table behind me and says something to the dog in Hebrew. It lies down under his chair. I have already scanned and read the menu. I order the shakshuka again. When it arrives, the server warns me again that the skillet is hot. She puts the tray down, though, the same way that she had last week. The skillet handle juts out toward me. I carefully spin the wooden tray around so that the handle faces away. The shakshuka is good. This time, it’s more spicy than savory. Conversations in English surround me. The man with the dog talks about something regarding law and about how dirty Manhattan is. Two men at the next table complain that people don’t appreciate how much exposure they give them in getting them to do things for free. Teenage girls ahead of me mostly chatter in Hebrew, but drop in English slang phrases and song lyrics. Two of them smoke thin cigarettes, manufactured with filter tips and translucent papers. Two men about my age sit at tables alone. One wears a stained white t-shirt. He reads a newspaper and drinks iced coffee. The other quietly eats a sandwich. Eventually a woman joins him, walking slowly with a cane. When I’m done, I get up and look over at the dog. I hope it will notice me. It doesn’t. I put my mask back on and walk away.