Forced to sequester him away from virile lust - both others'
and his own - the prison authorities allowed him to import his shoddy
furniture into the concrete monastery that later became the washroom.
Shalev slept in his predecessor's bed and kept his munchies in his
metal bureau, coated with peeling sepia paper cuttings. Now, he sank
into the matching armchair, arranging his limbs gingerly, as though
preparing to inventory them. He smoothed his feral moustache with two
stubby stained fingers and studied the board alertly.
He then rose from his seat, swung shut the door but didn't bolt it
(regulations). To fend off the gloom, I stretched over and turned on
the milky lights above his bookshelf. His wife got him some of the
volumes and others he borrowed from the prison's library, my workplace.
Shalev inclined and smothered a round piece with a bulky fingertip. He
drove it to a screeching halt next to a corner of the patterned board.
Then, content, he fisted the yellowed dice and hurled them at the
table. Six-six. His eyes aflame, he basked in this auspicious opening.
I waited with bated breath for an exclamation of his evident exuberance
- but Shalev just proceeded to conjure his pieces into and out of
existence in a whirlwind of clattering dice and scraping moves and
sweaty palms.
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