I simply want you out of here this instant."
Sleep-drunk, exuding tar and alcohol, I petition her:
"Where will I go?"
"There's a small inn on the Left Bank. I reserved a room for you, it's
cheap."
She hangs up on me.
I am in the midst of hurried packing when Eli calls:
"Shmuel" - his voice is crackling static, dim, and foreign - "Zehava
has someone. She wants a divorce and to take the kids. I feel like a
boatman who has lost his oars, the bitch. I go to Paris to make a
living, to create a business for our future, and she whores around..."
I gently place the sizzling receiver on the bed and drag my book-laden
suitcase to the corridor and then, thunderously, down the spiral
staircase.
The Out Kid
by Sam Vaknin
Sima was six years old when she died. Mother turned off the television
and instructed me to go to my grandma's home at once. It was that time
of day between retiring sunlight and emerging gloom. My grandmother was
sobbing silently, seated gingerly on a shabby couch, her face buried in
an oversized and crumpled handkerchief. My grandpa, muted, just hugged
her close. It all reminded me of a Passover Eve, refreshments strewn on
tables, hastily appended by my uncles and covered with flowery rags.
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