The city is as gray and still as it was yesterday, Sutro and the Golden Gate invisible. It’s like being on a becalmed ship surrounded by fog.

We brought in take-out last night. I would have preferred delivery, but Michael insisted on going out for it, and I find it hard to blame him for wanting to get outside, walk, see something other than the walls of this apartment.

We would have liked something from Pancho’s, our usual Mexican joint, but it is closed today for some reason. We settled for a newer place, also Mexican, just north of California Street.

I hope we don’t lose Pancho’s. It’s a small, brightly lit place, with just a few tables and walls covered with vintage Mexican movie and bullfighting posters.

One bit of art in particular sticks with me, something I typically have contemplated while waiting for our order to be bagged: A framed woodcut showing a bearded, well-dressed man with a black bag walking down a country path, one arm raised, eyes wide, his mouth a black O of horror as he’s confronted by a grinning skeleton in a serape and sombrero. The actual Spanish wording of the caption is lost to me now, but it translates to “The doctor surprised.” I suspect the woodcut dates back to the 1918 flu pandemic.

Yes, we lost Pancho’s.