Afternoon in Tel Aviv

Judaism, Fall, 1995 by Lillian Elkin

Her olive skin drowns the sun; she walks in sandals And sprays of sand are on her legs. It is three or four o'clock - we have given up time And in the thick heat the stores open like umbrellas.

At the street cafe with three sticky tables We stop for drinks; she orders lemon and I orange. The waiter changes the order knowing we're too tired for argument.

I sit watching the street become late afternoon. A woman carries a bottle of milk; a child cries and will not follow. Across the street the awning is raised over melons and wet plums. A bus of soldiers passes; they wave to the drinker beside me. The language is universal; she puts the drink down and waves back. She motions me to leave. Her decisions are impertinent, Even for a tanned girl, born in Chicago, on a street in Tel Aviv.

She says, "These streets aren't strange, only I am. The beach was crowded, I found a rock and took my sandals off. I met two boys; we had no common language. We drank soda; they walked me to the hotel, We said `Shalom.' How do you say my brother who is my stranger?"