“So, you’d rather keep others waiting than admit you’re running late?” My husband was appalled
“I’ll be there in just a minute,” I hissed at Avi, who was anxiously pacing our tiny Jerusalem apartment. “I just have to finish getting ready!”
I hastily drew two lopsided lines of ink across my eyelids, dabbed at my lashes with a mascara wand, and smeared lipstick across my lips with one quick swipe. Shoving my ponytail inside my sheitel, I scrambled through ten pairs of shoes in my closet until I found a gray pair of flats. I pretended not to notice Avi’s blatantly obvious glance at his new chassan watch.
“I’m done!” I declared defiantly, grabbing a fistful of jewelry and throwing it into my handbag so I could decide which piece to wear while in the taxi. We endured the ride to the restaurant, a mere 25 minutes late for our reservation, in stony silence.
We were only two months into our marriage, but Avi and I had already become painfully aware of how differently we each defined the words “on time.”
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