Shifra

The wallpaper was red and the female body sitting on the sofa and looking at the one lamp illuminating the redness of the room was forty-one years old and neglected. On the Levantine face was an expression of faint bemusement, and the shoulders were slumped in general reluctance. The fingers were peeling an orange. The orange juice dripped on the fingers and filled the white palm. The palm was white, because she was anaemic. But the anaemia was nothing to worry about, because it was under medical treatment.

            A lock of greying brown hair fell onto her right eye and narrowed her field of vision. The wet hand pushed it aside and the lock became stiff and sticky. She tried to remember when she had last washed her itchy hair. It was on a Wednesday. They were showing a programme about dolphins on television.

            She got up to bathe. When she came out of the bathroom, her hair, which was full of water and soap bubbles, dripped on the floor and made puddles. She took a towel and dabbed her head with it. Then she passed a comb two or three times through her hair and stopped. The soap bubbles made a noise like empty plastic bags.

            The remains of the orange were lying on the table. She wondered whether to take a bite. She took a bite, and the juicy taste was delicious.

            It was only six o’clock and she was already yawning. The sense of responsibility which she had developed in her first days with Avigdor told her not to go to bed early, so that he wouldn’t think of her as a bored sleepy-head who led an aimless life. She forced herself to make black coffee. The coffee was quite tasty, but it mingled with the five oranges which she had eaten during the day, and with...