Chapter 11: Intimacy
When I awoke it was about six P.M. Zvika was up and in the kitchen. I got dressed and joined him.
“Hello,” he said, then grinned. “Can’t say good morning—because it ain’t morning!”
I laughed. “No. It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. I saw then that he was cooking.
“So,” I said, “you cook.”
He looked at me and waggled his eyebrows, “And other things.”
I blushed, but asked, “Can I help?”
He shook his head. “Almost done. Steak and eggs, with toast, okay?”
For dinner? I thought, but nodded. “Sure.”
We ate, and talked in a desultory fashion about our experiences in London. I settled on the image of George’s mother, sister, and grandmother all in black.
“Like the witches in Macbeth,” I said. “‘Double, double, toil and trouble. Cauldron bake and cauldron bubb
