time for action will come.”
Abigail turned and went
back to the room in which she had lived with Aisha for the past month. The
atmosphere of Iran was everywhere. She still wore the garb of a Muslim woman
and when she took off the black dress and looked in the mirror, to her delight
she rediscovered Abigail, the person she knew.
For a moment, she mused
whether to remain in her black clothes so that her neighbors in the building
she had left would not notice her. But, on further thought, she decided there
was no need since there was no harm in changing apartments.
She
dressed in the clothes she had arrived with, jeans and a blue tricot t-shirt
that matched the hue of her contact lenses and went back into the living room
to take leave of them.
Abigail went outside onto the bustling
street and noticed the small car that had replaced her previous one. Then, she
decided to leave it where it was, in its tough to find a parking spot and she hailed
a passing cab.
“Dov Hoz
street in Tel-Aviv, please,” she directed the driver.
When they reached Natan
Hahacham Street, which was parallel to the street where she lived, she asked
the cab driver to stop. She took care not to go as far as her home on Gordon
Street, reminding herself not to observe fixed habits.
It was midday, and she knew she had no
food at home, so she decided to go to the mall at Dizengoff Center, about a fifteen-minute
walk away.
She was met with
bustling crowds as she turned to the mall, and throngs of people were milling around
when she saw her old friend, Shiri. She waved to her excitedly, ran towards
her and called out her name on top of her voice. When she got closer to her,
she noticed Shiri’s look of surprise then grasped that she wasn’t Abigail
anymore, that her appearance had changed, and she stopped, all at once.
“Do we know
one another?” Shiri inquired.
“Oh, sorry,
I was confused. I was sure that…”
“No, you
weren’t confused. I am Shiri.”
“Ah, but it
wasn’t you I had in mind. There must be someone else, who looks a lot like you."
“Wait, your
voice reminds me of someone,” the young woman exclaimed.
“Do you
know Abigail?”
“Who? No, I don’t know
her and Iapologize.”
She quickly turned away.
She pushed her way
through the crowds and turned her back on her beloved Shiri, the friend, who
had been with her from the age of six at boarding school. She
ran out of the mall, short of breath, and a minute later continued on her way.
Then, it occurred to her that this had
been an excellent lesson and also proved that she looked entirely different
because even her best friend could not recognize her.
Further down the road,
she noticed a store window with art supplies, right beside a small intimate
café. She chose a corner table and within a minute or two a waiter
brought her a menu.
“Yes, two
eggs, sunny side up, green salad and whole-wheat bread,” she ordered as she
pointed to a line on the set menu.
“It
includes the coffee,” he said with a smile.
“No, this time, I’d prefer a
glass of lemonade,” she responded, ignoring his lascivious stare.
When she finished her
meal, she left and went to look at the display window of the art supplies
store. Bowls of beads were arranged according to shade and size and there were
painting sets and frames. The painting was what aroused her curiosity, and she
entered and wandered around inside. Abigail mused with the idea of painting
the members of her family, who had remained in the desert and for whom she longed
so much.
“May I help
you, Ma’am?” a young man standing behind the counter, inquired. “Have you ever
painted anything?”
Abigail turned and went
back to the room in which she had lived with Aisha for the past month. The
atmosphere of Iran was everywhere. She still wore the garb of a Muslim woman
and when she took off the black dress and looked in the mirror, to her delight
she rediscovered Abigail, the person she knew.
For a moment, she mused
whether to remain in her black clothes so that her neighbors in the building
she had left would not notice her. But, on further thought, she decided there
was no need since there was no harm in changing apartments.
She
dressed in the clothes she had arrived with, jeans and a blue tricot t-shirt
that matched the hue of her contact lenses and went back into the living room
to take leave of them.
Abigail went outside onto the bustling
street and noticed the small car that had replaced her previous one. Then, she
decided to leave it where it was, in its tough to find a parking spot and she hailed
a passing cab.
“Dov Hoz
street in Tel-Aviv, please,” she directed the driver.
When they reached Natan
Hahacham Street, which was parallel to the street where she lived, she asked
the cab driver to stop. She took care not to go as far as her home on Gordon
Street, reminding herself not to observe fixed habits.
It was midday, and she knew she had no
food at home, so she decided to go to the mall at Dizengoff Center, about a fifteen-minute
walk away.
She was met with
bustling crowds as she turned to the mall, and throngs of people were milling around
when she saw her old friend, Shiri. She waved to her excitedly, ran towards
her and called out her name on top of her voice. When she got closer to her,
she noticed Shiri’s look of surprise then grasped that she wasn’t Abigail
anymore, that her appearance had changed, and she stopped, all at once.
“Do we know
one another?” Shiri inquired.
“Oh, sorry,
I was confused. I was sure that…”
“No, you
weren’t confused. I am Shiri.”
“Ah, but it
wasn’t you I had in mind. There must be someone else, who looks a lot like you."
“Wait, your
voice reminds me of someone,” the young woman exclaimed.
“Do you
know Abigail?”
“Who? No, I don’t know
her and Iapologize.”
She quickly turned away.
She pushed her way
through the crowds and turned her back on her beloved Shiri, the friend, who
had been with her from the age of six at boarding school. She
ran out of the mall, short of breath, and a minute later continued on her way.
Then, it occurred to her that this had
been an excellent lesson and also proved that she looked entirely different
because even her best friend could not recognize her.
Further down the road,
she noticed a store window with art supplies, right beside a small intimate
café. She chose a corner table and within a minute or two a waiter
brought her a menu.
“Yes, two
eggs, sunny side up, green salad and whole-wheat bread,” she ordered as she
pointed to a line on the set menu.
“It
includes the coffee,” he said with a smile.
“No, this time, I’d prefer a
glass of lemonade,” she responded, ignoring his lascivious stare.
When she finished her
meal, she left and went to look at the display window of the art supplies
store. Bowls of beads were arranged according to shade and size and there were
painting sets and frames. The painting was what aroused her curiosity, and she
entered and wandered around inside. Abigail mused with the idea of painting
the members of her family, who had remained in the desert and for whom she longed
so much.
“May I help
you, Ma’am?” a young man standing behind the counter, inquired. “Have you ever
painted anything?”
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