Chana, having made love
with young Baruch, went
to get more wine. Did she
need to get another? She

thought, she was old enough
to be his mother. The LP of
Bruckner he had brought
still played on the hifi; she

preferred Mahler’s fifth.
The kitchen light had a
mellow glow. She poured
more wine into the two

glasses and returned to
the bed. He was laid there
like some young prince,
proud and youthful, head

full of ideas, morals gone
to the wind, seemed happy
to have had her and sinned.
She put down the glasses

and climbed into bed. Him
and his Marxism, she thought
as he talked of Das Kapital.
She placed her hand on his

pecker, life enough yet,
stirred, moved. She could
smell the *** in him; the stir
of a young stallion. Her long

ago husband was never like
this even in his youth; she
was well rid of him, him and
those airhostesses, those

whom he said he had quite oft
and where. She smiled at young
Buruch lying there wine in hand
talking of a revolution that would

never come, his pecker stirring,
his words becoming slurred with
the taking of wine. That first time
he had her on the sofa; oh, that

took her back some. He drained
his glass, put on the side. He was
young enough to be her son, she
mused, watching him stir and

prepare, her young stallion with
hazel eyes and dark brown hair.