I took a seat in the back row, the musicians were already mid-performance. The room was compact with about 20 seats facing a performance space with all manner of instruments standing upright, and mounted on the wood paneled walls that formed a semi circle around the “stage”. Right now there was a duo; one guy on the drums the other on an acoustic guitar singing and harmonizing in a soulful manner about “beauty that falls like rain".
Excuse me? Would you like a glass of wine? A man at the end of my row, an empty seat between us, asked in allow rumble, indicating to the bottle of wine on the ledge withn arms reach.
“Oh, sure”
He pours me a plastic cup , looks over the rim as he hands it to me, and then fills his own. When done, we clink cups and I say L’Chaim
Who is this creature that has just slid up next to me in the darkness, immediately jamming my circuits and . No that’s Georges line…and no. no I can’t think about this right now. I need to focus on the Lord and Gratitude and Alignment and all that other good stuff. Palms together, back ramrod straight, eyes on the band of woodwind instruments that decorated the back wall. Thank You Hashem, do not think about your unvarnished and natty toes, or the energy of this guy next to you, and the lingering energy of Brett.
I walked home escorted by a troop of heavy leafy bowing trees, some with plant husks that drooped from low branches and clacked in the breeze. He did have those clear blue eyes, that’s all she knew about the stranger in the dark, he had really memorable blue eyes. You and your blue eyes,
I thought while I turned onto Azza street and welcomed the bright and lively scene before me, music poured out of a speaker and escorted me as I toured the storefront and saw someone spoon an oyster into his mouth. Wait is that possible? Here in Jerusalem?
Next: a trio of beauties sharing a delicious looking pizza pie, charred in all the right places with what looked like an impressive cheese pull as far as I could tell from my vigorous pace, a bar with a lot of bearded men hanging on the wooden benches, and then the strains of my favorite song
“Where is my mind? Where is my mind?” I followed the sound mindlessly, like a siren song, right up to a patio with a couch and fairy lights and then into the dark and dim bar/cafe/vintage store and then face to face with a pair of Kadosh Jeans.
Kadosh? What does that mean? I asked the young woman with twirling ringlets that went long past her shoulders from the kitchen window near the clothing rack.
She smiled at me, acknowledging my English, and thought for a second or two “…It means, holy.”
Say no more, and if they look en fleek, as I have the feeling they will, BONUS. I had to get them. So I did. I climbed into them and zipped them up, they were snug in what I prayed were all the right places, as I stepped on my tippy toes and peered into the mirror over the sink. The walls were decoupaged in pages of a 50’s fashion magazine. I paid the young woman whose name was Shira, and rocked my holy KADOSH jeans all the way home.
Midnight shopping in Jerusalem yields a precious pair of jeans
