It could have been romantic. The moon hangs low in the sky, over the walls of the old city. The ivory paving stones are smooth, trodden by hundreds of couples who have come before them. They both lean on the railings, with a panoramic view of Jerusalem below.
A breeze ruffles Brachy's hair and her full skirt, that falls down, to below her knees. She clutches the flowered folds of fabric, preventing them from sailing up, and showing Yaacov long nylon encased legs; a forbidden sight, for him.
Brachy glances at Yaacov. He is dressed in a black suit, probably his best, and a black fedora hat, polished to a sheen. He tugs at the hat now, pulling it lower, then higher, before turning round to look back at her.
"It's a pleasant night" He says.
"Yes. It is." She agrees
"We are lucky to have such good weather today. Yesterday was a Chamsin"
"Yes. We are."
Shulamit had been so excited about putting them together; Shulamit really thought this could work. Brachy knows she should try harder. She knows she should give him a chance. She is tired though, and bored, and wants this ordeal to be over. Soon she'll be walking through the front door and kicking off the patent leather flats; curling up on a corner of the sofa, resting her head on the cushions. Soon she'll sip hot fruit tea deluged with honey, and report on yet another unsuccessful Shidduch date.
"But what's wrong with him?"
"Nothing, Ima. Nothing."
"So you'll go out with him again?"
"I doubt he'll want to. We spoke of nothing but the weather."
"He's a Yeshiva boy. He's nervous, naturally. You've got to give him time to open up"
But Brachy was right. The next day Shulamit's phone call came. Yaacov would look elsewhere for a wife. Brachy was back on the market.
4 days ago