I need to tell him about Esti Kay. Like, on the date. Tomorrow.So any hope of sleep are obviously things of the past
The rest fades into small print I can’t make out.
Shimmy comes back to the table and swivels to see what I’m reading. He squints too, so either the restaurant bulletin board really is too far away, or we’re both reaching middle age.
“Chol Hamoed concert?” he asks, settling back down and reaching for the water pitcher. I watch him, Rivka waiting for Eliezer. He pours for us both; I exhale. A tzaddik gamur, I tell you.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, one of these women-only events.” I spear a piece of grilled chicken out of my salad, shake off the Caesar dressing, and casually watch his face.
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