Love in Bloom A Story
NOW close to forty, Harris “Heshy” Bloom wanted to get married in the worst way. Meeting people was his first problem, after that came others. Too old for dating bars, he froze on ski weekends and still came up empty. Summers were a little better, but by the High Holy Days he had run out again and had to depend on friends to fix him up. This didn’t always work out either. On the phone he mumbled, partly for romance, the rest stalling. To get more authority he dialed Information, asking for nonexistent numbers. Waiting, he wondered what it was like to be a phone and filled himself with carbon particles. Black. Blackness. Why no message units? It could be worse. What if the receiver was left off the hook, with me humming, helpless. Worried, Heshy couldn’t stop biting his nails, but developed a grip for holding his cigarette to conceal it. Time he gave also to revising past estimates, checking current ones. By the middle of the afternoon he was exhausted. Lunches, he wolfed down a sandwich and tried to cut a few z’s in his swivel chair.
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