Sunday, January 3rd, 2021

The door to the burger joint is ajar. I stick my head in and ask if I can order takeaway. The cashier says something about a telephone. I don’t quite hear it. Another worker, standing behind me, taps on the outside of the window. “Call here.” I back out of the doorway and look. A sign shows the shop’s phone number. I call it. The cashier answers. We wave at each other through the window. I order on the phone. It feels like the way that prison visits are depicted on TV. The cashier and I are talking both with our hands and on the phone. I do it all in Hebrew, though I get jumbled once. I remember that they call sweet potatoes “batata” and fries “chips.” Thrown by using one English word, I ask for “batata chips” rather than the proper “chips batata.” After a second try, the cashier understands. She says to wait outside for a few minutes. Another worker comes out with the bag and calls my name. I take the bag and hand him my card. He rings me up and returns the card. I duck around two scooters from the delivery company and continue on home.