Exhausted. Aviva glanced at the living room couch. She was utterly completely drained. What if she sat down for just a minute?
With a shake of her head she pulled herself away from the living room back into the kitchen. At 2:00 a.m. on Thursday night — after a way too long week — if she sat down on the couch she would not get back up. An hour ago Zevi had popped up sleepily from where he’d dozed off at the kitchen table (he seemed to think his duty as husband compelled him to join her in spirit at least in her madness) and mumbled “Donja think is time tagoda sleep?”
She’d looked at him at the red watch-shaped indentation on his forehead from resting his head on his arm and told him to go to bed. After all it wasn’t as if he could help her with the mushroom crepes.
She rubbed her eyes stopping when she realized she was getting flour in her eyelashes. Her fridge was packed with gourmet dishes; her house was sparkling like Pesach. And she was a miserable wrung-out wreck.
