When I was lying in bed, heat-ridden and attempting to stay very, very still, I comforted myself with the thought that were the power to never return, there was always Friday.
Friday I go to the director’s house for shabbat, and I know with certainty that I will be amply fed.
Horton calls it “challah night”, as in “Can I eat that challah that’s sitting there lonely in your backseat?” I was watching the road ahead of me, but I frowned. “No – I mean NO. You know why I have fresh challah. I’m not even touching it directly. Leave it alone, obviously.” I heard rustling and munching. “You had better be eating the meringues.” He emerged with a chunk of bread. “It’s only the end, Lola,” he said between munches. “The Jews won’t notice.”
There were hostilities between Horton and I for quite some time.