Chaim picked up his laffa, then put it down. He seemed to be thinking. “I don’t remember ever making a conscious choice in my life”
The door slammed and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who it was. It was 9 p.m., all the kids were home save one, and Avrumi would never slam the door. Obvious deduction: Chaim. Next question: What’s he mad about? Yeshivah? His business? The fact that his two-week deadline was almost here?
I turned around and smiled to his scowl.
“Wanna talk?”
He glowered.
“Want Schwarma Schtick?”
A nod.
“Order a lot, we got a lot to talk about.”
That actually got me a half-smirk.
Thirty minutes later, we sat down for Chaim’s second supper. I picked at some spicy fries while he worked his way through half a laffa.
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