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Authors: Naomi Ragen
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be bringing in some money too and, if so, how much and doing what?
Of course, none of these questions was asked openly and none of theanswers was given frankly. All these conversations were always held on the highest moral ground, cloaked in the most impressive and saintly verbal packaging. Words like tafkid be chaim (life’s calling), messirat nefesh (dedication of one’s soul), gemilut chasadim (charitable good works) were bandied about like the little hard candies thrown down at a Bar Mitzva boy to celebrate his successful reading of the Torah portion before the congregation, candies that often hit you in the head and accomplished minor concussions.
Then the elevator door opened and there she was. Or at least, he certainly hoped this one was his. He stood up. She was a vision in a slim skirt and green silk blouse, her blond shoulder-length hair tumbling to her shoulders in a mass of golden curls. He swallowed hard, mesmerized, thrilled, and incredulous at his good luck. He couldn’t wait for her to give his name to the housemother. When she did, he took a step toward her. “Delilah?”
She looked up. He was taller than she, but only by a few inches, nothing like Yitzie. Nor did he have that sexy, rock-star slenderness around the hips or that certain way of moving—fluid and a bit dangerous—that never failed to give her those little pinpricks of electric shock. She took a deep breath, accepting that there would be no thumping heart, no flowing juices. Instead of that, there would be a perfectly respectable, good-looking young man, with a conventionally handsome face, fine dark eyes, and a square manly chin. Someone who would look good to her family and friends under the marriage canopy. A genuine Orthodox Jewish catch.
She began to imagine herself as a pious rabbi’s wife. It’s what she had been praying for, the opportunity to reform herself, to wash the slate clean. Besides, she was acutely aware that her shares on the shidduch market were in a highly volatile state right now. All that was needed was for some busybody to start a little rumor about her unhappy romance. It was like when people began to question whether butchers were really selling glatt kosher meat. Once there was doubt, prime ribs became chopped meat and it was all you could do to give them away.
She smiled at him. He smiled back, his kind open face guileless, his eyes almost childish in their innocent, unfeigned delight. He hid nothing, she thought, surprised and a bit contemptuous. He was hers. He would be easy to manage, not the touchy type who took offense or held a grudge or got angry—unless you banged him over the head with a hammer. And even then. The hair was too short, and that outfit… Still, she had seen much worse.
He watched as her sparkling blue eyes slowly took him in with approval. His sweater, he realized, had been the right choice. She wouldn’t have liked a suit.
“Chaim?” she asked, and her white teeth, perfect and small and straight under cushiony lips, peeked out at him in a tiny secret smile. Oh, how he wished he could widen that smile, see those teeth in all their porcelain glory!
Is it necessary to expound upon the process of falling in love? The butterflies that wander through the digestive tract? The sweaty palms, the tickle below the belly button? The eyes that light up the object of desire like car headlights falling into a fog, all smoke and mirrors and nothing quite real? Let’s just say it: From that moment on Chaim Levi was smitten. As such, he didn’t understand anything that was happening.
They walked out into the New York night of twinkling lights and crowded streets, cars zooming, and couples walking arm in arm, their feet clicking against the pavement. He took her to a kosher delicatessen where religious couples on first dates often came. It was noisy and full of teenagers, and he regretted his choice immediately. He ordered pastrami on rye. She demurely ordered a salad, which she poked at
Of course, none of these questions was asked openly and none of theanswers was given frankly. All these conversations were always held on the highest moral ground, cloaked in the most impressive and saintly verbal packaging. Words like tafkid be chaim (life’s calling), messirat nefesh (dedication of one’s soul), gemilut chasadim (charitable good works) were bandied about like the little hard candies thrown down at a Bar Mitzva boy to celebrate his successful reading of the Torah portion before the congregation, candies that often hit you in the head and accomplished minor concussions.
Then the elevator door opened and there she was. Or at least, he certainly hoped this one was his. He stood up. She was a vision in a slim skirt and green silk blouse, her blond shoulder-length hair tumbling to her shoulders in a mass of golden curls. He swallowed hard, mesmerized, thrilled, and incredulous at his good luck. He couldn’t wait for her to give his name to the housemother. When she did, he took a step toward her. “Delilah?”
She looked up. He was taller than she, but only by a few inches, nothing like Yitzie. Nor did he have that sexy, rock-star slenderness around the hips or that certain way of moving—fluid and a bit dangerous—that never failed to give her those little pinpricks of electric shock. She took a deep breath, accepting that there would be no thumping heart, no flowing juices. Instead of that, there would be a perfectly respectable, good-looking young man, with a conventionally handsome face, fine dark eyes, and a square manly chin. Someone who would look good to her family and friends under the marriage canopy. A genuine Orthodox Jewish catch.
She began to imagine herself as a pious rabbi’s wife. It’s what she had been praying for, the opportunity to reform herself, to wash the slate clean. Besides, she was acutely aware that her shares on the shidduch market were in a highly volatile state right now. All that was needed was for some busybody to start a little rumor about her unhappy romance. It was like when people began to question whether butchers were really selling glatt kosher meat. Once there was doubt, prime ribs became chopped meat and it was all you could do to give them away.
She smiled at him. He smiled back, his kind open face guileless, his eyes almost childish in their innocent, unfeigned delight. He hid nothing, she thought, surprised and a bit contemptuous. He was hers. He would be easy to manage, not the touchy type who took offense or held a grudge or got angry—unless you banged him over the head with a hammer. And even then. The hair was too short, and that outfit… Still, she had seen much worse.
He watched as her sparkling blue eyes slowly took him in with approval. His sweater, he realized, had been the right choice. She wouldn’t have liked a suit.
“Chaim?” she asked, and her white teeth, perfect and small and straight under cushiony lips, peeked out at him in a tiny secret smile. Oh, how he wished he could widen that smile, see those teeth in all their porcelain glory!
Is it necessary to expound upon the process of falling in love? The butterflies that wander through the digestive tract? The sweaty palms, the tickle below the belly button? The eyes that light up the object of desire like car headlights falling into a fog, all smoke and mirrors and nothing quite real? Let’s just say it: From that moment on Chaim Levi was smitten. As such, he didn’t understand anything that was happening.
They walked out into the New York night of twinkling lights and crowded streets, cars zooming, and couples walking arm in arm, their feet clicking against the pavement. He took her to a kosher delicatessen where religious couples on first dates often came. It was noisy and full of teenagers, and he regretted his choice immediately. He ordered pastrami on rye. She demurely ordered a salad, which she poked at
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