Shapira

Tzvi Hirsch
Jul 21, 2017 · 2 min read

Half-light in my house, it’s afternoon and the AC is on. From the window of the kitchen, through the trees I can see Shapira. I am sure it’s a hot day outside, it’s August. A blind cat sits between two potted plants.

I walk barefoot, I make some Wissotzky grape tea and I text you to come.

Your light green eyes walk up the wooden stairs before you, your skinny legs too. You slowly take off your black sneakers, your socks, your shorts.

You don’t talk much but you tell me what I want to hear and you give me what I need.

The tea is cold now and the Sudanese walk out their houses. The windows are locked but we can hear their kids play. I wonder what are their dreams.

I lay next to you, on the ground, but the air conditioning is the only thing I feel. It makes me feel brand new. Appeased. Refreshed.

It’s only when I give you some cold water that you start to talk, and all I can hear coming out from your beautiful lips is nothing, nothing and more nothing.

You slowly put back your black sneakers, your socks, your shorts. You tell me how dangerous is to live in this area and some other bullshit. I walk you to the door and only when I open it I realize that there is no mezuzah at the doorpost.

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