He carries, at all times, a beautiful modern edition of The Art of War, which he reads during the break.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
They seemed especially nervous of ‘conceptual’ art. I can’t imagine what dark things they imagine.
She looks behind her, as if to remind everyone of something, and flicks her hair, like a pony flicks its mane.
She would like to open a bicycle cooperative in Tel Aviv, which is about the most lesbian thing anyone could do, possibly.