"Are those flowers like they put on a grave, is that why you're chanting for the dead? Violets? Roses?"
She wore white, and the pale cloth hung upon her shoulders like a shroud. But the cut was like a child's cut, a child's first white dress. It was soiled, Leo could see now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, at its hem.
Do you smoke?" she said. She lit another cigarette and took the flowers, smelled them. "The tobacco kills my sense of smell, but they're beautiful. I'm going to the pictures and to the automat -- do you want to come?"
Leo hesitated. He could feel Salzman's presence nearby, although the changing had ceased. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
You're intruding on nothing -- I was going alone. But you're welcome to come," said Stella. "I know the boy who plays the music in the pit, he'll get us in free." Her shoes made a sharp sound on the sidewalk. "Coming? Do you like the pictures?"
Leo could still hear Salzman breathing, although the man was no longer praying for his daughter, or praying -- for something, anything. All prayers had ceased. The night was...
He could feel Lilly's presence, somehow, lurking indefinitely in the corners of the outer air, aging the night moment by moment as she seemed to grow older and older in speeded up time every time he met her.
That night he would follow the white dress with the dirty hem, in tune to the click of the high heels. He would tap his own feet to the music of the silent pictures although he could not allow himself to laugh at the flickering images upon the screen, he was too focused on Stella's sweaty palms and harsh, sharp nails digging into his skin as he sat. He would eat non-kosher macaroni and cheese at the automat with Stella, and then he would leave and never see her again, her napkin with lipstick and coffee stains in his pocket, the only souvenir of the night that changed his life, that drove him away from New York, to travel the United States and ultimately the world, and finally to Israel where he made the dessert green, now a rabbi but overseeing a congregation that would have been incomprehensible to the man on the corner, holding the roses.
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