Clay Turtles

It wasn’t the usual girl behind the counter in the café that day.

“What’s happened to Yulia?” Lea asked when it was her turn to be served. “Not working today?”

The new girl, slim, her hair tied in a taut ponytail, gave her a tired look bounded by black, overlong lashes and black, overly sketched eyebrows. She said, “What?”

“Yulia,” Lea repeated. “Not working today?”

“I don’t know any Yulias,” the new girl sighed wearily. “You want to order?”

“Yes, yes, sure,” Lea apologized. “One small latte, please. To go.”

The new girl fluttered her Bambi-like eyelashes and announced, “Thirteen shekels, please.” Lea quickly poured the exact change she had prepared in advance into the slender hand. She looked up, hoping for a little smile of appreciation, or some sort of animated, impressed cry, because change was always scarce in the register. At least, that was what Yulia had once told her, and had added that it was very considerate of clients to prepare the exact change in advance. That was what she had said, word-for-word, but the new girl’s gaze had already drifted away to the man standing behind Lea, patiently awaiting his turn.

As she waited for her coffee, Lea looked around the café carefully. Nothing had changed since yesterday – or all the other yesterdays in the three months since that particular Aroma Café branch had opened under the Golden Towers. Lea happened to live in one of the towers. On the fifteenth floor. Where the assisted living ward was.

She leaned her elbows on the long, marble-sheathed counter and curiously examined, as if...