"We are going" - reiterated Aliza. She arose and straightened an
erstwhile festive dress. As she was circling the table, Dinah barged in
and hesitated by the threshold, prodded inside by the rain that
drenched us all. An invisible hand shut the door behind her.
She was soaked, her hair in ropy waterfalls, her clothes an aqueous
pulp, her wide feet bare. She gravitated towards a vacant chair and
folded, planted in a swelling puddle.
My mother, exiting the kitchen, stared at her, alarmed.
"Where were you?" - demanded my grandmother bleakly.
Dinah shrugged. "We strolled in the public park. We walked a lot. He
talked to me. His speech is beautiful, like a gentleman's. He is wise
and erudite. He speaks six languages."
"Then he is definitely not for you" - my grandma interrupted rudely -
"We have enough whackos in the family."
Dinah shivered. "He is not a whacko, don't call him that!"
My mother served her scalding coffee and my grandmother kept mumbling
crabbily: "He is not for you, Donna. You forget about him this very
instant!"
Dinah sipped the beverage, her eyes occluding pleasurably. She
unwrapped them, green and crystalline, and said: "It all remains to be
seen. It all remains to be seen.
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