right hand makes a sign for “forbidden”; her left hand rests on our child‟s head. She implores me to stop. But I can‟t stop now; she has to understand this. She fades away, having seen the proof of my unfaithfulness. Another second and I burst through the buttery ocean, I float weightless, sheer joy holding me up, and Fatima appears again, this time with both children, the boy and the girl, and the word “forbidden” written in large letters on a paper in her raised hand. She looks just like the Mastermind and speaks in a shrill voice I don‟t recognize, accusing me of failing our people, our fate, and our future, of forgetting the task for which I had been selected and trained, of consorting with a despicable Jew, a cowardly, perfidious, feeble dhimmi…Stop! I cry. She shouts, “Those who forsake us in the final battle will burn in the fire of our fury forever…” No, I say, wait. Or better, go. Leave. Another final battle was raging here a moment ago, and a battle of sweetness and succor it was, and instead of coming out victorious, I brought peace: not victory for myself and defeat for her, but peace and joy and forgiveness… My Jew, I say lovingly, my head resting on her shoulder, my right hand under her head, and my left hand on her white stomach.
Galia He lies next to me, his hand on my stomach. Suddenly he withdraws his hand, as though not trusting himself, then again he allows it to touch me, then again pulls it back. So indecisive, it‟s almost painful. But it‟s painful only when he withdraws his hand, because when he touches me, it fills me with sweetness, even though he caresses me hard, as though kneading dough. When he withdraws his hand again, I look at him and see that he is drenched in sweat. I say, “You‟re sick! You should take an aspirin!” He sits up in bed and says, “Yes, I‟m sick,” sounding like he‟s glad that I noticed. Now that I know he‟s sick, he can attribute everything that happened here to his sickness and not to his conscious will. He gets up, sweat falling off him like raindrops. He takes a towel, brings it to his face, dabs at his cheeks. He sits at the table, patting his face in gloomy silence. I can‟t quite put my finger on what bothers me. What exactly is going on? I‟m lying naked on a man‟s bed. The man is sitting at the table. It doesn‟t look like he‟s coming back to bed. This means I should get dressed and leave. But where are my 199