He’s seen too many kallos over the years to think everything is picture-perfect; often, the smiles waver, revealing turbulence as strong as choppy waves beneath, eyes an internal storm of lightning and thunder.
BETWEEN THEM The budget. Ah the budget. That must be it that’s all that it is and yet it is all it is everything right now looming between them a roaring painfully quiet boulder that has wedged itself between the two of them
Y itzchak is crouched over the worn leather ledger when the buzzer sounds. A quick glance at the closed-circuit television reveals a young couple smiling shyly at each other. The girl wraps her woolen coat around herself a little tighter seemingly to protect herself from the harsh autumn winds. Yitzchak watches carefully. What coat of armor is she trying to build as a protection?
He notices even through the grainy pixels of the large screen the girl’s sure confidence the straight-backed pose that comes with wealth. Her clothing is designer; years in his uncle’s business taught him to recognize quality in fabric immediately. A quick glance at the boy: a black faded suit a beaten hat a small rip in the shirt. Yitzchak wonders if that’s the reason for the girl’s stance a clashing of socio-economic culture a couple raised separately in vastly different strata. He buzzes them in.
The couple brings with them the wind flushed cheeks the smell of cold. The boy — that’s all he is really a boy his body still lanky awkward as if he shot up overnight and isn’t quite sure what to make of these limbs; his eyes unlined; can’t possibly be more than 21 barely legal — whispers something in her ear and she is laughing but Yitzchak notices something in that laugh. There’s a barrier in that laugh. It comes from the throat not from the belly and for the briefest moment he watches the boy’s eyes flash in question.
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