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But, listen, first I have something to tell you. But what can I do, Bracha? I just have no choice. And where was I that morning when they met for the first time at the factory outing in Netanya? As far as I remember, I was at the hairdresser. For every one of my curls that fell to the floor, they exchanged a smile or some knowing remark. By the time Lucien turned off my hair dryer, they were already in love. When I was paying and leaving, they were already holding hands. And my curls? Afterward, a sea breeze came along and blew them away, and where are they now? Probably blew across the border into Jordan. What foolishness, to go and get my hair cut and take off three-quarters of my curls. And on that very same morning. He just picked up his fork and took out all his anger on the hard-boiled egg on his plate, until the white was mush and the yellow inside was flattened and striped from the fork. I kept my eyes on his plate the whole time, because I was afraid to look straight at him. Because he really does have a hard time at work. He has too much on his shoulders, and that Alfred keeps him on a short leash. Now that I think about it calmly, I can see that I really should have picked a better time to talk to him about it. Even though, actually, where will it get me, looking for signs? Every morning, I have a sink full of dishes, some from the night before, too, and instead of washing them I have another cup of coffee, and another one, and sometimes another, until my heart starts to pound, and then I sit myself down at his desk and tear off a sheet of paper with the factory logo, and begin to plan what to make us for dinner and what to get at the supermarket and what not to get at the supermarket, better to buy at the greengrocer. As long as Moshe is still home, I cook for him. As long as he keeps most of his things here, I wash and iron. And ironing. A vacation. Fewer dishes. Except watching television: I get up, put on a robe, sit in the kitchen, and watch through the pass-through into the living room. Whatever is on—about Ninjas, about the leopards that used to live in the Judean Desert and have almost completely disappeared, about how people survive in earthquake zones, about rain forests and crocodiles in the land of Brazil. There was one program about two men, good friends from the Holocaust, Yossel the Painter and Yossel the Writer, and you could see them standing together in a room and sort of shoving each other, but not hard, the way friends do, you know? Or maybe they were putting on a show, pretending to be friends for the cameraman. And I remembered very well that if I stopped eating fried foods completely and started a diet. In the end, I washed the dishes after all, in case he came home to get some more things and got angry at me for no reason. You are exactly as old as you feel. The way to keep him from wandering is to be an entire harem for him. Sexual variety: every woman has it. But, above all, remember that a relationship is first and foremost based on consideration and mutual respect. Danish experts analyze the mystery of love: is it a form of selfishness, or a form of generosity, or both? Exclusive: Pazit Linkowitz speaks out. Why me? Let him tell them. But should I remind him to tell them? I got dressed and went out to do some shopping and errands. Who is she, this woman he found for himself on the factory outing in Netanya? How old is she? Is she married? With children or without? And what presents has he bought her already? First, we enclosed the balcony, and last year we replaced the washing machine, instead of going to Spain. Has he bought her clothes? For the winter? What did he buy? Where did he buy them? And what presents does she give him? What for? With his belly and his flab and the hairs in his ears and the smell. He has a problem with his sweat glands. Because of that, and because of the smell from his mouth, I prefer that he do me from behind, with my face toward the mattress. Or that I sit on top of him, as far as possible from his mouth. What position does he do her in? How does she manage with the smell? But what use is it to me to know if she has to wear a stiff brassiere with two holes in the cups in bed with him and pretend to come? And, really, it makes no difference to me what she looks like. Or that one over there, with the big bosom? He would always turn his head to look at blondes in minis and at not-blondes in not-minis if they had a big bosom. So what if I turn my head? Or it may be someone that I actually know very well personally. What a fool I am. With legs like mine I could also walk around in a mini. Even in shorts. Why did she run away from me? Combed for a very long time, though I have hardly any hair left after what Lucien did to me, and I have no one to blame but my own stupid self. At least in the very beginning? When he still called me sweetie pie? And if she also likes to squeeze his blackheads, and does he let her and not get annoyed at her? Every trip he took abroad for the factory, he would always bring something back for me and the children. That Sigalit woman is totally wrong, because if that were truly the case, and if the lover and I wear exactly the same perfume, then why would he change women? I sat for a while on the bench in the park commemorating the fallen Navy heroes and considered the question from all sides. Or maybe, by coincidence, she also wore Poison even before he started up with her? And on the very same morning. Did she inspect our family pictures on the sideboard first? Run her fingers over our wedding photo? And did Moshe undress her and lay her down on the sofa in the living room? On the rug? Or even in the bedroom on our bed? On top of the bedspread or first taking off the bedspread? Did she use my toothpaste afterward? My hairbrush? My cotton balls? Did she take a little of the Poison that he brought me as a gift from Rome? Touch my skirts in the closet? Peek in my drawers? Inspect my underwear? Wonder about the brassiere with two holes? Luckily, I had a little notebook in my handbag with the factory logo and pages that you can tear out and one of those little gold-colored pens that fits inside. I wrote:. Also, I need to call the technician so that the snow finally stops falling on us in the middle of the movie channels. This nice little notebook fell straight from heaven with its little gold pen. And I thought about the fact that some of them probably died before they had ever touched a woman and what a pity, because now, in my new situation as an undependent woman, why not, I could put on a little Poison and so on, no problem, and every so often take fallen heroes to bed, to make them feel good and me, too, in the time I have left before the diseases set in and the grave. Afterward, I left the memorial park and wandered along the streets and looked a bit in the store windows, or, to be exact, I looked in the glass of the store windows to see how I looked. Sometimes I appeared short and square, and sometimes I was tall and thin, like a matchstick figure. You can have anything done these days. Behira, she was the first girl in our class at Heroes Hill Public School to buy a see-through lace bra and undies, which was a brand-new thing then, and they said that boys went crazy for them, but the girls also went a little crazy for them. The street was filled with all sorts of women. Suddenly, I had an urge to know exactly what brassiere and undies each one had on underneath. There were some who walked down the street together in pairs and laughed out loud. And there were lots of blondes, mostly with bleached hair, and probably they wore micro-string bikini pants underneath. So when Moshe asked me to go with him to the factory outing in Netanya, I should have just said yes and even bought sexy underwear for the trip and those stockings with lace trim and a miniskirt and dyed my hair blond. Instead, on that very same day, I went and let Lucien shear everything off. Such a fool. I slaughtered myself all by myself. The wind here usually blows from west to east, so my curls have probably blown all the way to China by now. Not for Moshe to read, God forbid. Certainly not for the children. Maybe it will turn out to be a long letter to my friend, my old classmate Behira? Greetings, Behira, dear Blanche. How are you, and how are things over there? Do you still remember our teacher Tzila Tzipkin, with the red boots? It must be thirty-five years since we saw each other, you and I, but no matter. I wonder if these days you still wear those gorgeous undies and bras, with lace, sort of see-through? Or maybe, just the opposite, you let him run off wherever he wants, because you already have a lover and you only wear the fancy bras and see-through pink undies with lace trim for him? If only I had your address in Geneva, we could start to correspond, just the two of us. All the way home I walked and looked only at women. I took an especially close look at women who were wearing miniskirts or shorts, with or without pantyhose. There were a few women on the street with a strong smell of perfume, and I started to follow them and tried to sniff—was it Poison? Nice to meet you. So I held it in. Yaniv asked if it was because of him, because he was a bad boy at our house on Saturday afternoon? Maybe that will touch him? A girl in jeans sat on the bench in front of the post office with a little dog on her lap. Yaniv went over to pet the dog for a minute, and when we left he said that the dog had wanted to bite him. Save this story Save this story. Two flannel shirts. Undershirts—long sleeves. Long underwear. Wool socks. And maybe new pajamas, too. All this for him. And for me: Sweater. Winter skirt. Or maybe pants instead. Something not too expensive. Warm stockings. Flannel nightgown. Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon. Link copied. Instant coffee. Garbage bags. Soap for the dishwasher and detergent for the washing machine. A man before sex and a man right after are entirely different creatures. The in thing in the jet set: A mature woman takes herself a novice as a lover. New research: Life begins when the kids leave home! Frozen chicken. The grave. On Friday, buy flowers for the living room for Shabbat—maybe people will come over. Pretzel sticks. Black olives. Cheeses and those little tomatoes and all kinds of snacks. Maybe ice cream also, two flavors. Some fruit. Paper napkins. Good coffee. Assorted candies. Amos Oz was an Israeli novelist, short-story writer, and essayist. The King of Norway. By Amos Oz. By Lore Segal. The Weekend Essay. The Pain of Travelling While Palestinian. This year, I learned the difference between a traveller and a refugee. By Mosab Abu Toha. I want to embrace amor fati , but I really can no longer recollect who I once was. By Liana Finck. Cowboy-Dance Future World. By Jack Handey. Personal History. By Alexei Navalny. Photo Booth. In the eighties, the Puerto Rican photographer Ricky Flores captured the parties and the people that shaped his teen-age years. By Geraldo Cadava. Invitation Only. By Holden Seidlitz. Don Luigi Ciotti leads an anti-Mafia organization, and for decades he has run a secret operation that liberates women from the criminal underworld. A Critic at Large. By Hilton Als. The New Yorker Documentary. The documentary short by Patrick Bresnan and Ivete Lucas follows Michael Mullen on his rounds attending to pets and their owners.