‘I’ll have a beer,” I told the young man behind the bar of the sweet little pub hidden like a jewel between a spice vendor and a Judaica stall in Jerusalem’s Machane Yehudah shuk (open air market).
Dropping my overflowing bags, I hunkered down at the bar and ordered whatever beer was on tap from one of the micro-breweries cropping up across the country.
Turning to the gentleman next to me, I warned him not to crush my tomatoes.
He responded by offering me a cigarette.
‘Watch out for my eye!” I gasp as my hair stylist, chatting up another stylist, waves his scissors dangerously close to my retina.
And to be fair, how else is he going to emphasize his words? To really underscore the significance and validity of his point?
I mean, is it his fault that my pesky ole eye had to up and get in the way?
“Ach, Don’t worry!” he consoles me. “We have another eye for you in back!”
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