marlborocigarettes
Oh, my little girl, my little girl. I only hope she won’t hate me for this. As always, when the marlboromiles is finished I go inside and put my ear to the door to listen to her playing and to the teacher’s instructions. The parents are invited to sit in on the lessons, but the kid is dead set against this and always asks me to wait outside. A smile crosses my lips as I hear words of praise from the teacher: "Very nice. Just so." And my heart skips a beat when I hear "What happened to you today?" or "I thought we figured out the fingering last week?" She had a good lesson this week. I heard it and I was delighted, and a minute before the end I rushed out and again feigned surprise when she emerged. "Nu," I ask as always. "So how was the lesson?" "Crappy." "Come here, sweetie," I said and hugged her shoulders. "Let’s buy a cake." Crossing the road, we found ourselves in a magnificent chocolate shop, as befits the residents of the neighborhood. I stood there with my daughter, who looked calmer now, and let her choose the cake she wanted. She pointed to a round chocolate mousse thing: "I want that." "Can I have the chocolate mousse, please," I asked the saleswoman, who didn’t bother to move from her post behind the counter and replied with the confidence of one who will not budge from her position: "But it costs NIS 150."
