19
The summer air was hot and humid, like every day. By the time I made it down the five sets of stairs from my apartment to the street, I was soaked in sweat. In the supermarket, tourists were frantically looking for someone to translate the Hebrew product information. Others skeptically inspected the kashrut confirmation on the packaging. I bought coffee and milk, then crossed the street toward the fast-food restaurants.
The Indian food sat in two small boxes. Elias wasn’t hungry. He lay on the couch apathetically, covered by a light blanket, flipping through channels. I sat down next to him and snuggled up. I wanted to feel his warmth, kiss him and stroke him, but he didn’t move, wouldn’t grant me even the slightest tenderness. Rigor mortis had already set in.