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“To Mickey. Your mother called. I hung up on her. Don’t you dare show your face around here anymore.”
“To Sinai. I’ll be home late tonight, but I left some cholent in the fridge.”
“To Feige. Where’s that tenner I lent you? You said two days and it’s a month already. I’m still waiting.”
“To Tziki. I admit that I acted like a shit. But if your sister can forgive me, so can you.”
“To Avram. I don’t care what the lab tests show. For me, you’ll always be my dad.”
“Bosmat, even though you’re with another guy now, we both know you’ll come back to me in the end.”
In retrospect, and after the slap in the face I got for that last one, I suppose I shouldn’t have written what I did for the tall guy with the Marine buzz cut who was buying a book for his girlfriend, though I still think he could have made a civil remark instead of getting physical.
In any case, I learned my lesson, however painfully, and since then, during every Book Week, no matter how much my hand itches to write in the books bought by some Dudi or[…]”

Excerpt From: Etgar Keret. “The Seven Good Years.” Apple Books.

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