The service was slow. Normally, I’d be impatient, but I was yapping so much, I barely noticed. When the food finally came, I hadn’t even thought about the waiting time. The cuisine was piquant, not unlike Indian and Middle Eastern cuisine, but unique because of a sour taste from the injera. I couldn’t say it was love at first taste, but my tongue wasn’t complaining.

“What do you think?” Koby asked after a few moments.

“It’s good.” I tore off some injera and used it to eat the lentils. “Something really primal about eating with your fingers. Like when you were five and playing in the sandbox, getting your hands all dirty.”

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you. You’ve hardly said a word,” I remarked. “You’re a very good listener.”

“You’re very interesting.”

“Now that is bald flattery.” I hid my face behind my water glass. “I think it’s because you’re a nurse. You’re used to listening to people.”

“Of course. And you too, no?”

“Yes, that’s true. Ninety percent of what I do is listening to people.”

“I as well.”

“Even with kids?”

He thought about that. “With the small children … The small ones don’t talk much. You make games to get them through the procedures. We have on staff several psychologists who do this. When they are too busy, the nurses do it. The little girls play with dolls, the boys … They like to hit and punch. Boys always like to hit and punch. When they are sick and angry, they really like to hit and punch. I spend a lot of time dodging punches from very angry boys.”

“It must be hard being around sick children all the time.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it is rewarding. Like your job?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Like my job.”

Koby said, “I change the subject now. The word ‘gursha’ means mouthful, but it’s also a tradition that we Ethiopians do.”

“What’s that?”

“We share our food. That is why everything is served on one plate. If we have very good time, we feed each other.”

“What?”

He placed some spiced peas atop the injera and made a mini-sandwich. “Minhag Hamakom. That is Hebrew for the custom of the house. You must eat from my hands. Otherwise they think you don’t like me.”

“This is for real?”

“Look around.”

I did. There was a twenty-something Ethiopian couple across from us. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and had Rastafarian curls; she had on a hot pink silk blouse and black stretch pants, and had her hair tied in a ponytail. She was indeed feeding her lunch companion with her hands.

“Okay,” I said warily. “As long as I get to feed you.”

“Of course. That is the point.”

As soon as his hands touched my mouth, I started laughing and instinctively backed away. But then I ate the proffered morsel, my tongue grazing his fingertips. I returned the gesture by feeding him injera wrapped around collard greens. He had the grace to take the food without being sleazy about it. But it didn’t matter. Feeling his lips against my skin set off my juices. Apparently, he felt something, too.