Alberto did something to displease a Russian customer, who, as a sort of warning, mimed slitting his throat.
Vera said, for everyone to hear, ‘Jews want money, of course,’ and laughed.
He said he’d had a headache, and had to pack, but I knew that it was love that had made him a liar.
She killed more bees, just so she could fill the tiny bee graves she’d dug.
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
Unusually for Israel, this Land of Blutos, he had no beard, no stubble, no hairy chest. He said, “Let’s go in,” so in we went.
She lies on a rug with Alberto, they are playful with each other, then nap, their bodies touching, like incestuous twins.