She chose this life, so why did she feel so stifled?
They’re not really the reason that she’s perched on the edge of an ugly beige bathtub, bawling and ruining her mascara.
They’re just, well, the final straw.
Tehillah slides down to the tiled floor (that always looks grimy, no matter what) and dials Sheva. It’s eight a.m. in America; her friend is nauseatingly cheery.
“Chamudah,” Sheva cackles, in a shabby imitation of the seminary cook. “Chamudah, it’s an ant. It’s teeny-tiny-piiiiitzky. Who’s bigger, you or the ant?”
She wants to throw the phone across the room.
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