The bathroom is now hung with damp t-shirts and jeans from the mass hand-washing I did yesterday. The refrigerator has also been cleaned, and is stocked with the take-out Michael picked up last night from the Turkish joint a block away (“You can do another load of laundry or you can pick up food. Not both,” I told him.) — hummus, dolmas, eggplant, falafel. Today I can work on my novel without feeling too much like I should be doing something else.

If I’m to judge from what I’m reading online, it’s become a point of honor in San Francisco to get take-out or delivery from a neighborhood restaurant at least once a week during the quarantine. We’ve been a foodie town since the gold rush, and there’s a strong level of loyalty for restaurants, grocery stores, and produce. “We ate at their place in the Mission last year, and it was good,” Michael said about the Turkish joint. “They opened a new place a block away a few months ago. I think we should order from there tonight.”

We worry about all the treasured local businesses that may have vanished by the time we finally emerge from the shut down. We fear large chains pouring into the vacuum.

Another gathering in the roof gazebo last night, more firelight, laughter and hefted wineglasses. I suppose they’ve made it a weekly thing. At one point, well after dark, there was a reprise of the tin-drum beating and shouts I heard last week. No drum, but suddenly we heard the partiers whooping in unison, and distant calls in response, whistles, and cheers from other rooftops.

Before the pandemic, this usually indicated some beloved sports team had scored a significant goal, but that plainly can’t be happening now. I think it was like-calling-to-like across the city, people who were partying calling out in solidarity with others who were partying. Maybe it’s like the party call I remember from my youth in North Carolina. When the music was loudest and the exuberance at its height, people dancing on one side of a room would point at the other side and chant “Party over here! Party over here! Ain’t nuthin over there! Ain’t nuthin over there!” and the other side would answer “No, party over here! Party over here! Ain’t nuthin over there…”

The calls and whistles died down after a minute to just the conversation and faint music from next door. By eleven, only two voices were left, two women either arguing or discussing something they felt strongly about. I couldn’t understand them, but one of them seemed to have a foreign accent and was either angry or talking about something that made her angry. Probably one of of those end-of-night, alcohol-fueled heart-to-hearts among the wreckage that I always found such a satisfying close to a party.