“Don’t be silly,” I reassure Itzik, as we sip on our sachlabs on Rothschild early last Thursday evening. “Nothing will happen in Tel Aviv.”
It might as well be the cue for the siren.
There are a surreal couple of seconds, during which the occupants of adjacent tables exchange puzzled, yet pregnant, glances: “Is it . . . ? What now . . . ?”
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