Especially when they don’t actually take place. As though someone took a small hammer and struck a sheet of glass. The center of the break is obvious to the eye, and from it the fracture’s lines run and branch out again and again, and at each juncture the paths grow more and more narrow (they’re no less crooked, nor do the number of branches decrease). It’s hard to follow them, and anyway, what kind of idiot strikes a sheet of glass like that? Here, for example, is a story in which Motti and Ariella run into each other on May 14th a few years from now: They met one day at a convenience store, it was entirely by chance, in the evening they went to a Chinese or an Italian or a French restaurant or for falafel, they ordered dessert or didn’t order dessert, and the dessert reminded her of something or pleased her or, let’s say, ruined her diet and at night they returned (let’s say) to his apartment, and they made love or just had sex, and Motti came too fast or didn’t come too fast, and in the morning, if she stayed until the morning, she put on a white or pink or striped shirt with buttons or without, and she got pregnant or didn’t get pregnant, and they were together forever or not, and she became a veterinarian or a librarian or an unemployed interior decorator or a cosmonaut or a surveyor, and each and every day they did something or other.
