The Frum Woman’s Handshake

"Shake my hand." I say to my husband

"Huh?" he replies. We don't usually shake each other's hand as a greeting.

"I need to practice" I say. "For the interview."

He looks worried.

"Because it's a woman who’ll be interviewing me." I explain. “They said her name is Ilana. I"ll actually be able to shake her hand, so I want to check my handshake is ok”

He still looks rather confused. "What's the big deal?"

"Everyone knows there's a lot they learn about you from your handshake. It's very psychological." I should know, I’ve been reading enough online posts about how to prepare for an interview. (Tip: don't say your biggest weakness is hating routine boring work.)

I’ve shaken hands with someone perhaps once in my life. I've spent my last thirteen years making excuses for why I can't shake hands with men, an art form mastered by most Frum women.

We know the hold cellphone/drink/notebook in each hand trick, the sneeze into your hand and hold dirty tissues trick, the nod and smile before he has a chance to stretch his hand technique, and when all fails the " I'm sorry but I don't shake hands with men" explanation. But that's a last resort that risks offending; we try not to let it get that far.

Basically we Orthodox women are adept at how not to shake hands, but unfamiliar with how to actually shake someone's hand, should we so wish. ( Maybe that should be my excuse next time. "I'm sorry, but I don't know how to")

Being interviewed by a woman is a new occurrence. ( And perhaps reflective of the state of women's career paths in the Israeli workplace?)

I stretch out my left hand. My husband reaches out and holds it. We shake.

“How was I?” I ask

“Fine”, he says.

“Not too limp? Not too firm?”

“Maybe a bit too strong. You shouldn’t be trying to move my hand.”

“Oh.” I say. We try again

“How was that?”

“You're fine,” he says, “can we have dinner now?”

------
“Hi, I'm Ilana.”

“Pleased to meet you" I say.

We both smile. I wait.

“Would you like a drink? Or shall we get started"

No hand appears on the horizon. Maybe at the end?

------
"It was a pleasure meeting you, FNF."

“Same here.” We both smile. Again I wait.

“Here, I'll show you out.”

I don't believe it. After all that. When I finally can.

Maybe handshaking doesn't even happen anymore? Maybe it’s an archaic custom of a bygone era, sustained in only by orthodox female paranoia?

History of (my) Hair

Straight- "stick straight"- hairstyles were in fashion when I was in ninth grade. On my trek from home to school I ogled the glossy photos pinned up in the local hairdresser’s windows- models with choppy haircuts, layers of varying length, all falling in perfect symmetrical lines.

My torturous attempts at blow-drying resulted in puffy, frizzy, waves. Straightness was out of my reach except for on those rare visits to the hairdresser for a cut- from which I emerged with glossy locks, content until I couldn’t drag out the days any longer, my hair needed to be washed, and returned to its natural wavy state.

I counted the years until I’d be able to wear a wig. I already knew which wig I would choose; it would be fall below my shoulder in beautiful straight layers.

I didn’t count enough years. Fast forward a decade, and I was still making do with my own hair. A lot happened in the meantime. I discovered the wonders of the straightening iron, and finally straight hair could be mine. Then fashions changed, wavy was “in”, and I decided my hair wasn’t too bad after all.

Now I had a new challenge, proving that my hair was my own, and hadn’t been shaved of the head of an Ukranian peasant girl. Because I was a frum female in my twenties. And everyone knows that all women of this advanced age must be wearing a wig.

When I pulled back my hair in a headband, the Yeshiva-guy-I-didn’t-marry told me it looked like I was wearing a fall. When I cut side bangs, full bangs, again that was the latest Shaitel trend.

I stood on the roof of a hotel, watching my friend’s Chuppah, the wind blowing my fresh-from-the-hairdresser hair in all directions, and I was glad, because maybe now it would look messy enough to be obviously non-Shaitel. Then I trooped down the flights of stairs with my friends, and sat around a satin cloaked table with them, looking from one to the next and envying their glossy, perfectly set, “babylissed” curls and what they represented- lifetime membership to a fraternity I was locked out of.

When I was miraculously granted the key to the club, I was too busy with planning a wedding to give much thought or time to my soon-to-be-mandatory head covering.

I tried on a Shaitel. It looked OK. I bought it. It cost a packet, but then so does everything else that goes with getting married. I didn’t think twice until after the wedding.

Suddenly I stare in the mirror and see a stranger looking back at me.
The straight hair I once envied now feels fake, and flat. I long for my own natural curls, with all their messiness and lack of discipline.

Maybe I should buy another Shaitel, a curly one. “If that’s what you want, you should get it.” TCO tells me.

But looking at the price tag, from the viewpoint of a newly married, it seems like a horrible waste of money. More than a dining room set. More than wall to wall bookshelves. More than an extended honeymoon in Europe. Just so I can look less married, more “like myself”.

Wearing a wig does save time, I plop it on without a thought to what’s underneath. Wearing a wig does symbolize something I’ve been waiting a long time for. But wearing a wig, well, it’s wearing a wig.

The "Who-She-Dated" Blacklist

I try not to be a typical newlywed. In fact, I never really liked newlyweds, caught up in their own little blissful worlds.

One common newlywed trait is matchmaking. And for newlywed bloggers- the complaining that goes with it. Suddenly singles are "pushy" and "picky" and "ungrateful" I swore never to switch roles quite so drastically, and I hope I'll stand by my word.

But yes, I am guilty of being a newlywed; of the type eager to make matches. And some things really do get me upset.

True fact - We don't know who we are going to marry until we marry them.

I have lots of different types of friends; some are loud, some are quiet, some are shark and some more easy going; basically every friend is different.

And that's normal. Most of us have more than one friend, and usually our friends are not identical.

In other words, we get on with all sorts of people.

So why, when it comes to dating, is there a perception that a girl can only date one type of person. And if a girl went out with a guy who's not exactly the same as you, then obviously you can't go out with her. Because "If she went out with Shimon she can't be right for me".

Clarification: She only dated Shimon, she didn't marry him. And it was a blind date at that. Maybe she dumped him after one date? And even if she didn't, even if she - shock-horror -dated him seriously, why does that rule her out for you?

Your friend Yitzy is friends with Shimon and with you. Why can't a girl go out with and get along with Shimon and with you? (Obviously not simultaneously)

I keep hearing the same line. "But she went out with him. She can't be right for me." Who knew drinking coca-cola with a guy boycotts a girl for life?

This is my first Shadchan rant. Sorry for crossing over to the dark side.

Bye Bye Shidduch Resume, Hello Career Resume

Now that I've quit my evening job (shidduch dating, for the uninitiated) , I've been able to give a lot more thought to my day job.

That and the fact that suddenly mortgages and bills are eating up a major chunk of what used to seem like a generous enough salary (when all it needed to pay for were clothes).
I've discovered that there aren't that many employment opportunities in Jerusalem in my field. And have started emailing out my (non shidduch) resume to companies all over the country.

If I start commuting I could probably make a significantly higher salary. (yippee)

But then I'll have to pay for a car. There goes the pay raise. (boo hoo)

But I'd have a car. (yippee)

But I'd have at least one hour less time a day. (boo hoo)

I GChat with a former colleague. She's married with a kid. She's quit her job after having a baby, and has been trying to get back into the workforce for more than a year. She has a great resume, and impressive skills. And she's still jobless.

"They all ask me how I plan on balancing work and family life" She tells me. "Then they hire a man instead of me."

It's there, but you can never prove it, never blacklist or sue.

Companies will prefer to hire a single man than a woman with kids. And what if the man has kids? That's OK, because everyone knows men can "compartmentalize". What if the woman is single or doesn't have kids? She can just get away with the sin of her sex. (Obviously there are women that break the rules. But I'm guessing many of them joined their companies while still childless.)

My friend claims that now's my last chance, if I want to change jobs. Now, when my stomach is flat, and I don't need to juggle daycare and long hours.

On the other hand job security will be a big plus when I do eventually enter that beautiful state of nausea and hormonal madness, and want to take sick leave for checkups, and extended maternity leaves. The job security I'll lose if I leave.

It's the best of times and the worst of times- for a career change that is.

Shana Tova!

OK, I know Rosh HaShana has been already. But it’s like Tashlich right? I can push it off my new year’s post to before Yom Kippur, or even up until Hoshana Raba. (Hey I made Yom Tov, that’s a ton of cooking and I don’t even know how to cook, so gimme a break.)

Once upon a time I wished my friends Shana Tova in person - we met in school, in Shul, “around”.

Then came the phone calls – we’d moved areas, switched schools, started Seminary.

Text messages were next – a constant beeping of poetic wishes throughout the day.

I blame Kosher phones for the shift to mass emails .

But emails are so 20th century. Nowadays we wish Shana Tova intimately to our close friends – using Facebook Statuses, Tweets, and of course – on our blogs.

So Shana Tova everyone! Thanks for your loyalty, if you’re actually reading this, after my neglect.

Blogging more regularly- that's my new year’s resolution. Together with finishing my novel. Oh and being a better person etc. etc., but we don't need to get into that.

Truth is I have been writing - just not in my old haunts. Check out the Yom Kippur and Sukkos Mishpachas for my stories (by Sara Shamansky) I’m in the third Calligraphy in a row, which I think is kind of cool.

With proceeds of said stories I ordered an IPad (money is a great motivator !) and hopefully I'll get more blogging done on my new toy.

I’m also back at pounding away at The Matchmakers Diaries, so expect to see some new chapters up soon. ( If any of you still remember the plot... )

Anyway, may you have a happy and meaningful year, and may all your wishes come true.

"In your condition"

The seats are all taken. I stand next to TCO, both of us clutching the hand rail. Through the front window we see old ladies leaving the Shuk with their shopping trolleys and cutting in front of the traffic. The bus crawls along Aggripas street, the driver trying not to run over any of the old ladies.

Now before I continue, I better clarify one thing. I'm skinny. That's my body build, and even 6 months of no exercise hasn't changed that. We're on our way back from a lunch date, so I'm wearing a new tunic top from my TJmaxx spree in the US, My shoes and hat also match, and I'm feeling pretty fashionable.


Then a middle aged woman makes eye contact with me. She's sitting in a single seat by the door. She asks me I want to take her chair. I shake my head.

"I'm fine." I say. I wonder why she's asking. She's older than me by at least two decades.

She stands up, and gestures to her seat
.
"Maybe she's getting off the bus as this stop." I think.

I move down the aisle to right beside her. As she stands up, I'm ready to take her place. Then a man blocks me. "I was here first." He says loudly. Heads turn in our direction.

"Then I'll stay here." The woman says. "I wanted her to sit, in her condition."

They both look at me.

In my what?

I have a millisecond to act. I don't feel like announcing to the entire crowded busload of passengers that I'm not pregnant. Sitting down seems the easy way out. I do it instinctively, without thinking.

So she stands. And I sit.

Hopefully she'll get off at the next stop, and then I won't feel so bad.
She doesn't.

She continues standing, by the door. Does she notice now that my stomach's flat?
I clutch my stomach, covering it up. Pretending the phantom baby is kicking now. My one mission is for the overly kind stranger not to find out that I'm a fraudulent pregnant woman.

"Do you have stomache ache?" TCO asks, from where he's standing next to me. He somehow missed the previous dialogue.

It takes 15 minutes and 3 bus stops of guilt before the good Samaritan finally gets of the bus.

I've learned my lesson. Wearing a tunic top carries consequences.

Meanwhile my friend from Kiryat Sefer shared horrific tales of daily commuting by bus, with morning sickness, in her first trimester when she wasn't obviously "showing" yet, and standing throughout the ride, no one offering their seat. She threw up every day, as soon as she reached solid ground again.

You can’t win.

Hidden Tresses

"I wear a hat at night." She says it matter-of-factly.

"You wear a hat to bed?" I try not to sound shocked. She's not Chasidic, she's not even Chareidi. It seems rather extreme to me.

"Yes, I decided to keep my hair covered at all times."

That's the point when naughty questions pop into my head, like when exactly does she show her hair, but I bite them back, being the nice frum girl/woman I am.

"Oh." I say instead. "I don't cover my hair at home."

"Unless we have guests of course." I add. I've got my reputation to mantain.

"Of course" She says.

"I mean it's a good thing, covering your hair all the time, I guess… There's that story with the woman who merited torah scholar sons because the walls of her house never saw her hair…" It's a Bais Yaacov classic. I always hated it, but that part I leave out.

The conversation leaves me thinking.

I don't cover my hair at all, except when I have to, i.e. I'm outside, or there are (non related) men around. (Halachically I heard that in her own home a woman doesn't have to cover her hair even if there are strange men around, but I'm not going that far, it would make them, and me, uncomfortable. )

It's hard enough covering for a woman to cover her hair, so why make it even more difficult?

Or am I missing something here?

Maybe the reason is logistical - when there are older kids around, it confuses them to see their mother without a head covering?

And maybe there really is some mystical Tznius benefit?

It's a bit like the great "what to wear to the separate swimming pool" debate. It's about extra sensitivity. What can I say, I don't have it yet.

So what do you do, or plan to do, in your homes- bare it or share it?

Mrs. FnF

I'm suffering from a dreadful case of writer's block. Well maybe it's more like newly-married-and-haven't-blogged-for-six-months block. But in any case I really want to get back to blogging, since as I revert into a 9-6 working gal who cooks supper and does laundry on the side, I feel like I'm losing a part of myself, a very precious part, that I was rather proud of.

So my half year anniversary resolution is that I'm going to blog again. I won't write, that's too scary now, the blank white word documents stare back at me when I try to write. Instead I'll simply share the things I'm thinking, and hopefully, one day, this will be the blog it used to be.

Or in other words – Hi readers, I'm still alive, please come back. Anyone?

One thing I still haven't gotten used to is my new "title".

"Gveret"

Is he speaking to me?

I'm not a "gveret", a lady. I'm a "bachura", a girl. (That's I I'm lucky. Usually I'm a "motek" or "chamuda" or "mami".)

But suddenly I'm a grownup.

The taxi drivers, the cashiers at the supermarket, the clerks at the bank, they are all treating me with new found respect.I've been working for five years, paying taxes and handling bills, releasing multi million dollar projects and investing in a pension plan. But then I was still a kid, according to the voices on the street.

I find it funny that one wedding ring and one hat/sheitel/scarf, is what makes me an adult, a lady, in the world's eyes.

And I wonder, when go secular women get to escape their "bachura" status? Because they wear no telling head covering. Or is their ring finger being surreptitiously checked every time they step foot in public?

Mikvah Madness

It was too late. I was naked when I found out the truth. I clutched the towel around me and stared at her in horror. I was trapped.

Only I could make such a stupid mistake. I missed all the clues- the sandy path that was longer than I remembered; the sign post for the Mikvah Keilim I didn't recall; the type of women inside- I should have known something was wrong when I saw the women. Nine of them, lined up in a row, one empty chair in the middle that they seemed to have saved for me, ready to interrogate me; the questions- how long I'd been married, how many times I'd been here before; the blessings that I wouldn't need to be back the next month.

"I've been married six years and this is my fifth time at the Mikvah" one woman proudly told me. I tried to do the math in my head, while the other women congratulated her.

The woman sitting behind the till wore a thick turban. She wasn't Simcha, the Mikvah attendant I'd come back here for. I'd travelled all the way, decided the long journey was worth it, because Simcha had been so understanding and easygoing the last time, my first time.

Maybe Simcha was inside, I told myself, I hoped. Or maybe this was Simcha's day off.

"Bath or Shower?" Mrs. Turban asked my neighbors, and one by one they disappeared down the corridor.

Eventually only I and Mrs. Fifth-Time were left. "Bath" she said, "I need a good long soak."

So the shower was free for me, and to it I was led.

"You can take anything you need from the shelves; a comb, a brush, anything else."
"Oh, I got ready at home." I said.


"You still need to comb your hair" she said. She sounded stern, or was I imagining it? Simcha hadn't sounded like that, Simcha had been nice.

"Ah, I forgot." I said.

Her face stayed in a frown.

"It's only my second time here" I said, "My first time since the wedding."

Her face relaxed a bit, she opened the door to the bathroom.

When I rang the buzzer, I hoped Simcha would be the one to open the door on the other side.

She wasn't. Mrs. Turban walked in, carrying what looked like a miniature tool kit, spread out on a towel.

I pulled the towel tighter around me. I felt exposed next to her thick stockings and starched clothes.

She sat down and spread the sharp and shiny tools on her lap. She told me to stand in front of her. She lifted up my hand, and picked up a nail file.

"I want to leave my nails the way they are." I told her. "My Kallah teacher told me it's Halachically fine."

"Who's your Kallah teacher?" she asked.

I named her. Mrs. Turban gave a hmpph, and started filing my nail.

"But I don't want to do that." I said. "I want to leave my cuticles the way they are."

That's when she stopped, and looked at me, in the eye, for the first time.

""Here we follow the Rabbonim." She said. "Here we file away the cuticles. That is what the Rabbonim said we should do. This is the Chareidi mikvah."

And that's when I realized what I'd done. I'd gone to the wrong Mikvah. There were two of them, one next to the other, one "standard" and one "Mehadrin". Last time I'd gone to the standard Mikvah, where Simcha worked, but somehow now I’d landed up in the Mehadrin one. I used to think my bad sense of directions was a joke, but this wasn't funny.

I wondered if it was too late to make a run for it. I pictured myself, running through the streets in my towel, with Mrs. Turban chasing after me with her nail file and scissors. I stayed.

I read too many Naomi Ragen horror stories in my teens, of prying attendants, intimate inspections and humiliations. I used to dread the day I'd need to dunk.
Then before my wedding I learned that the responsibility to be prepared for the Mikvah would be mine, and mine only. The Mikvah attendant's main task was to see that I was entirely immersed in the Mikvah's waters. She would also be there ahead to help me, to remind me of things I may have missed, to offer to look in places I couldn't see myself, such as behind my ears. She would have no further authority. The decision when and how to dunk was mine, and not hers.

I felt better.

But that's not what was happening now. "Here we follow the Rabbonim." The words echoed in my mind. There was no arguing with that, no respecting my wishes.
My hands hurt for a few days, where Mrs. Turban had picked and snipped at them. Worse than that was the feeling inside me, the feeling of humiliation, the fear that slowly ebbed away.

Because when "we follow the Rabbonim", then whatever I say won't help. It's my body, but they are in control.

Sshhh, I'm back

I owe a big apology to my readers. I disappeared, and it wasn't very nice of me. All I can say is that planning a wedding sure takes a lot of time. But at least I'm back now :-) And I missed you!

One of the big differences with married life is the sudden secrecy that veils your life. There are two of you now, and the things that go on between you should remain between you, should be private, intimate, told to no one, shared with no one. That's right, that's good, that makes sense.

And it really is wonderful, being together, sharing a life and a home and a future with someone you love, who loves you. It's so good you don't know how you survived so long on your own. It's like tasting heaven. It feels like a dream you don't ever want to wake up from.

Yet still the secrecy bothers me. I wish I'd been more prepared for the halachic aspects of marriage, the physical aspects of marriage. Nobody told me, because nobody talks about it. Ten sessions with a Madrichat kallah are supposed to cover all of that. One woman, one hashkafah, one bank of knowledge; it's not enough. There's a new voice inside me, crying that it wasn't meant to be like this, feeling betrayed by the silence. Knowledge is power, that's been my motto throughout my life, and suddenly, in one of the most important aspects of human life, of Jewish life, I feel like an ignoramus.

I would have like to read about more than the sweet platitudes of married life. On the internet I only find the PR, the comparisons of Mikvahs with Spas, the marketing of Niddah laws as the secret for a perpetual honeymoon. Is it only me who finds it difficult? Do no other women ever struggle with some of the laws of Taharat Hamisphacha?

And now I want to write, want to break the silence, but keep coming up against a brick wall. The wall of privacy, of modesty, blocks me from speaking.
I don't want to stop blogging. I don't want to lose that part of me. I may not be single, not be in Shidduchim any longer, but I think my blog was and is about more than that.

And I don't want to stop being open. I don't want to start spouting out surface sweetness, all the time hiding what's really on my mind.

I guess I'll just have to find the balance. Somehow.

God's Hands

Dating is misleading. It can give me a feeling of being in control. Phoning people, finding out about boys, scheduling dates; I've learned the rules already, I know what I'm doing. There are the rules of the game, there are moves you make, the responses you foresee. I can handle it.

There are those moments when the world seems to gang up around you in order to thwart you, there are days when the world seems to disregard you, and ignore your existence, not care about the ticking time and you remaining single. But even then I'm usually caught up in trying to set things to rights. I use logic, and thought. I "try different types", and "mix in a new crowd", and "speak to so and so who I met in Shul and should know the right people"

I forget to pray. I'm so busy running the show I forget how helpless I really am.

Until I'm sitting on the bus, silent after 2 hours of talking, thinking, thinking about him.

I really liked him. We kept finding things we have in common. Small things, like family football teams, big things, like our relationship with our older siblings.

I like him. I want to go out with him again.

So many things can go wrong. He can not like me (chas vechalila! my heart is crying) I wasn't lookig pretty tonight, I went straight from work, I'm not feeling pretty, that's not a good sign. I feel over dressed in this suit, messy in hair that was only washed last night.

And even if I like him and he likes me, so many things can go wrong. I know them all, they've all happened to me before. Or it can be something new, that I never even worried about before now, that's suddenly disrupting it all, breaking it all, ruining it. I'm so scared. My dream is within reach, let it not be snatched away.

I'm hopeless. It's in God's hands. All I can do is pray.

I've been waiting for a long time, for the moment to be right to share some news with you. And then when the moment came I delayed it, writing a few lines and not completing them, starting posts and deleting them. Because where to start? What to say? How to virtually jump up and down?

But what better way than by with the very beginning? So here goes:

Ladies and gentleman, I wrote the above post a few months ago, on my way home from my first date with my most wonderful and amazing FIANCE!!!!

Hello World

The good news is, I've not been abducted by aliens.

Yes, I know that you've been getting worried. It's been almost a whole month without posting. I hear your fear.

And all I can say is – Sorry. I've just been rather busy lately.

Mishpacha asked me to write a story for them for their Sukkos issue, and that's taken up all my free time, the time I usually use for blogging, or working on my novel. Even when I wasn't writing it, I was thinking about it, and thinking that I should be writing it if I could only get myself to stop reading/resting/randomly wasting time. I've never written a story with a deadline before, and I'm not used to the pressure. Inspiration goes out of the window, and forcing myself to clang away at the keyboard arrives instead. But I think the end result was OK, I'll let you know when it appears.

My other update is that I won't be coming to New York this August. It sounded like a ton of fun, and I was really looking forward to meeting a lot of you(!!!), but some logistical details in Israel mean I'm going to be stuck indoors in my boring office job instead. Oh well, hopefully some other time.

Also, I may have an exotic variation of writer's block disease. There is some stuff I want to blog about, but for various reasons now isn't the time.

So all I can say in the meantime is- please don't give up on me! I love blogging, and I love you reading my blog. I'll be back soon!

Connection over Kiruv

I asked a girl for directions today, and we ended up chatting through the rest of our shared ten minute walk from the train station.

I felt happy. Not because I saved a soul, not because I helped a secular Jew see the light, but because I made a friend.

Just like Yeshivish Harry says perfectly in his post on being friends with secular Jews, relating to other Jews shouldn't be all about Kiruv, it should be about conection, and caring.

Hopefully, the next time that my ten-minute-friend thinks of Chareidim, she won't think of the men throwing stones in the Meah Shearim, but of a girl who's a lot like her inside, even if she is dressed a bit differently.

And you know what, even if that doesn't happen, even if our conversation changes nothing about the way she views religious Jews, it doesn't matter. Because for a few minutes, two Jewish girls were friends. And I bet that when we were smiling, God was too.

Earning a Living

Some of you noticed already. Thanks for the encouragement!

Those of you who didn't, I'm sorry, I know it's a bit late to only tell you now. Your copy of Mishpacha has probably already been recycled or passed on to the neighbor. But just in case you still have this week's magazine lying around, check out the back page of Family First. Story look familiar?

There's nothing like the thrill of seing your 'name' in Print. (Sara Shamansky = FnF.) Shamansky actually used to be my family's name generations back, so it's half true!

And in another attempt to earn my living from my pen (yeah right, like that's happening), here's a sponsored ad: Check out Modern Tribe for cool and hip Judaica

Chapter 30: A Bottle, a Boy, and a Phone Call

She felt at home here. The polished mahogany tables, the stiff brocade sofas, the gold velvet curtains falling to the floor, nothing had changed in the years since her first visit. The same pictures still hung on the walls in their gilt frames, obtuse splotches of dark paint; she was beginning to find them almost attractive.

The boy was pulling back his jacket sleeve, looking at his watch. He did it openly. He didn't seem to care that on Shidduch dates it was rude to check the time; that it showed he didn't want to be there, with her.

Brachy could have saved him the bother. She was quite aware of the amount of minutes that had passed, and the amount that were still left to be gotten through. An hour and a half was the standard duration of a first date.

His face creased, as he examined the watch's hands. He looked back at Brachy, and at the half full Coca-Cola bottle and nearly untouched glass, on her side of the table. Both his bottle and glass were empty.

"What do your siblings do?" He asked her.

"I'm the oldest" Brachy said. "They are all in school still." Had he not taken the trouble to find out even that basic information beforehand? Or had he not made the effort to remember it?

She saw his gaze travel down again, to the unconsumed beverage. They couldn't leave, until her Coca-Cola was finished.

Brachy picked up the glass, and tried to gulp down the drink as fast as she could.
The hotel no longer seemed welcoming. She could sense when her company wasn't wanted.

He continued to ask the routine questions. She refilled the glass from the bottle, and answered as best as she could, between swallows.

Finally the glass was empty. She rested it on the table, and looked back at him.

He stood up.

The bill was paid, the taxi cab found, the ride passed with polite small talk, and soon Brachy was alone again, standing on the pavement. She could walk down the gravel path, between the trimmed hedges, and unlock the metal door, and press the elevator button, and travel up to home and sleep.

It wasn't late. The date had been short, shorter than usual. The other boys had pretended to be interested in her, at least. Brachy felt tears well up in her eyes. She never cried. She wouldn't cry.

Would she never find a boy who liked her? What was wrong with her? Was she too quiet, too shy? Didn't she smile enough?

Some boys liked her. Avner liked her. He'd said she should call sometime, and they could do something fun. She didn't have to go in straight away, Ima wouldn't be expecting her home yet. She could meet up with Avner first. She pulled out her cell phone to call him.