But I don't tell Yael. This goes far beyond small talk. It goes to painful things we never mention: Saba. War. Yael's mother All of Yael's childhood. I touch the scar. He feels hot, as if just thinking about that day has inflamed him. "It's not that cool," I tell him. "It's just not healing well."
"I can mix you something for that." Yael brushes the scar. His fingers are rough and calloused. Workman's hands, Bram used to say, although he was the one who should have had the roughest hands. Then I realize we haven't hugged or kissed or done any of the things one might expect from a reunion.
Still, when he removes his hand, I wish he hadn't. And when he starts packing with promises of things we'll do when I have a day off, I wish I'd told him about skinheads, about Paris, about Lulu. Except
