“All right, I will,” said Rimona, adding after a brief silence, “Why not?” Almost smiling, she huddled in her armchair clutching her fresh mug of coffee with all ten fingers. Her eyes seemed to trace in midair the musical forms pouring from the radio. “Yes, I’ll tell you. It was like this. When the two of us decided to get married we were each other’s first. You were my first and I was yours. And you said to me that we would go on being first all our lives, that we wouldn’t copy anyone, and that whatever we did, in the house, in the garden, anywhere, we would do as if no one had ever done it before. That’s what you said. That we would be like two children who are lost in the woods but who hold hands tight and aren’t afraid. You said that I was beautiful and that you were good, and that from now on it wouldn’t embarrass you any more, because when you were little you were embarrassed that everyone, your housemothers and your teachers and your friends, always said you were good. You said that you would take me hiking in the desert and teach me to love it. And you did. And you said that I would teach you to be quiet inside and to love classical music, especially Bach. And I did. We thought we’d get along well together even if we never talked all day, even if we sat together a whole evening without saying a word. And we thought, both of us, that it would be best for us, and best for your parents, if we lived together instead of in separate rooms, you with Udi and Etan R., and I with those two visiting girls. Because once we were married we could live together and not have to meet out-of-doors in all kinds of weird places. And the summer was coming to an end. Do you remember, Yoni, it was almost autumn and then it would be winter, and in winter there would be no place to meet. And so we decided to get married before the rains began. Don’t cry, Yoni. Don’t be sad.”

“Who’s crying?” said Yonatan angrily. “It’s just that fucking allergy of mine making my eyes smart. I’ve told you a thousand times that they sting and that you should stop putting pine branches in your vases.”

“I’m sorry, Yoni. It’s just that it’s winter now and I can’t find any flowers.”

“And I’ve told you a thousand times too to stop saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry all day long like some waitress or a chambermaid in a movie. What you should be saying is ‘What now?’

“What now, Yoni?”