Sunday, May 10, 2020

I get to the hallway for the afternoon prayers then stop, return to my desk, and put on my mask. When I get back, the building manager is talking to one of my coworkers. The coworker asks me, in English, if I’ve noticed a smell in the men’s room. I have. I tell him that for weeks now, one spot in there has smelled like a subway. He tells the manager, in Hebrew, that it smells like the Central Bus Station. That apparently means the same thing. I’ve been there. I can believe it. I don’t remember a smell in the station, but I may have been too confused by the architecture. The building manager trots down the hall to the men’s room to check it out. By the time he gets back, we have ten men. We start the prayers. Almost everyone is back in the office. One programmer who is over seventy now works from home. So do a few people whose young children haven’t returned to school yet. The rest are here. Students are back at the elementary school that I pass on the way home from work. Children play in its yard, behind a high fence. Nothing keeps them a proper distance apart from each other. That may be impossible. I come home early to make a video call. It’s Mother’s Day in the States. I call my mother, brother, and sister simultaneously. The call connects without much hassle. My sister and I are in our apartments. My mother is sitting out on her porch. My brother is several meters away on her lawn. Their phones echo and feed back on each other, but we make it work. Next time, it should be easier.