as he rocks his hips. Soon, he’s thrusting into me, making the fire on my butt come alive again as he drives me into the mattress over and over again. As if I couldn’t tell, his teeth sinking viciously into my shoulder tell me he’s there. He shudders against me, releasing a groan that reverberates through his ribcage as he pulses inside me. Perhaps this is how we’ll find our way to each other.
Chapter Four
‡
E lan has volunteered to cook on Thursdays when I teach an evening class. It’s very generous of him. He even rescheduled his weekly learning with his brother Moyshe to a different night, and though he didn’t say so I know he’ll leave the shop early to do it too. Not that his nephew and Reuven aren’t perfectly capable of minding Klein Brothers for a couple of hours, but Elan likes to be there.
Emerging from the hot oven of the subway station with a flock of other frum around me, my shoulders drop. Home. I’m back in a neighborhood where more people look like me than don’t, and the ones who don’t are accustomed to Orthodox, many even stricter than I am. I love my job and while I’m teaching, it’s easy to forget that my students and colleagues think I’m odd. They’ve become acclimated to the way I dress and I’ve gotten pretty good at speaking two different Englishes depending on where I am, but when the lecture stops and I have to walk through campus where people stare as I pass, it’s impossible to ignore. I can’t wait for colder weather when it won’t be quite so obvious.
Once inside the apartment building, the sounds particular to each family—already familiar to me after just over a week—fill the halls as I climb the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Friedman shouting at each other because they’re both nearly deaf, the Cohens’ eight children making the kind of ruckus only a herd of young ones can make, and the strains of violin music leaking from under the Rosenthals’ door. I’m not sure how someone who can’t play on Friday evenings or Saturdays makes a living as a musician but apparently it can be done.
When I open the door to our apartment, I’m hit by an olfactory wave. Curry.
Elan had asked me on one of our dates about the foods I missed since starting to keep kosher. Curry was on the list. Lamb, beef, chicken, I don’t care. I never made it myself but it had been one of my go-to takeout options. No longer because though we have Middle Eastern food, an excellent Chinese restaurant, and there are rumors a sushi counter will be opening its doors, Indian cuisine hasn’t quite made its way to Forest Park. But here it is, the unmistakable smell of curry wafting into the hallway.
I divest myself of my things and head to the kitchen where Elan is standing over a couple of pots on the meat side of the stove.
“I’m home, Elan.” He probably heard my shuffling and dropping things in the hallway, but just in case I wanted to announce myself. I don’t need to startle him over hot burners.
“Mmm.” His distracted grunt doesn’t bother me. Indeed, when I see his face, it’s in a rictus of concentration so fierce I’d be surprised if he noticed if he set himself on fire.
“You made curry?”
“I have tried to make curry,” he corrects me.
I smother the laugh rising because last week’s attempt at lamb chops did not go well. He puts down the spoon he’s been using to stir and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and holding it between us.
“Would you mind putting this in the bedroom? I meant to put it away earlier, but I forgot.”
I carry it to the bedroom, knowing precisely where on his dresser it belongs. He’s quite orderly and I try to keep my things the same way, lest he develop another complaint about me. My natural state is somewhat more…cluttered. But just as I’m about to return the worn leather billfold to its place, I stop in my tracks. There are several things laid out on my side of the bed.
A large metal ring, several bundles of rope of
Chapter Four
‡
E lan has volunteered to cook on Thursdays when I teach an evening class. It’s very generous of him. He even rescheduled his weekly learning with his brother Moyshe to a different night, and though he didn’t say so I know he’ll leave the shop early to do it too. Not that his nephew and Reuven aren’t perfectly capable of minding Klein Brothers for a couple of hours, but Elan likes to be there.
Emerging from the hot oven of the subway station with a flock of other frum around me, my shoulders drop. Home. I’m back in a neighborhood where more people look like me than don’t, and the ones who don’t are accustomed to Orthodox, many even stricter than I am. I love my job and while I’m teaching, it’s easy to forget that my students and colleagues think I’m odd. They’ve become acclimated to the way I dress and I’ve gotten pretty good at speaking two different Englishes depending on where I am, but when the lecture stops and I have to walk through campus where people stare as I pass, it’s impossible to ignore. I can’t wait for colder weather when it won’t be quite so obvious.
Once inside the apartment building, the sounds particular to each family—already familiar to me after just over a week—fill the halls as I climb the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Friedman shouting at each other because they’re both nearly deaf, the Cohens’ eight children making the kind of ruckus only a herd of young ones can make, and the strains of violin music leaking from under the Rosenthals’ door. I’m not sure how someone who can’t play on Friday evenings or Saturdays makes a living as a musician but apparently it can be done.
When I open the door to our apartment, I’m hit by an olfactory wave. Curry.
Elan had asked me on one of our dates about the foods I missed since starting to keep kosher. Curry was on the list. Lamb, beef, chicken, I don’t care. I never made it myself but it had been one of my go-to takeout options. No longer because though we have Middle Eastern food, an excellent Chinese restaurant, and there are rumors a sushi counter will be opening its doors, Indian cuisine hasn’t quite made its way to Forest Park. But here it is, the unmistakable smell of curry wafting into the hallway.
I divest myself of my things and head to the kitchen where Elan is standing over a couple of pots on the meat side of the stove.
“I’m home, Elan.” He probably heard my shuffling and dropping things in the hallway, but just in case I wanted to announce myself. I don’t need to startle him over hot burners.
“Mmm.” His distracted grunt doesn’t bother me. Indeed, when I see his face, it’s in a rictus of concentration so fierce I’d be surprised if he noticed if he set himself on fire.
“You made curry?”
“I have tried to make curry,” he corrects me.
I smother the laugh rising because last week’s attempt at lamb chops did not go well. He puts down the spoon he’s been using to stir and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and holding it between us.
“Would you mind putting this in the bedroom? I meant to put it away earlier, but I forgot.”
I carry it to the bedroom, knowing precisely where on his dresser it belongs. He’s quite orderly and I try to keep my things the same way, lest he develop another complaint about me. My natural state is somewhat more…cluttered. But just as I’m about to return the worn leather billfold to its place, I stop in my tracks. There are several things laid out on my side of the bed.
A large metal ring, several bundles of rope of
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