Turkish Coffee and Bevelled Glass

I stepped into his store, one which I've passed numerous times.  I saw the "Going out of business sale" sign and decided to take a peek to admire his wares.  The mirrors were gorgeous--hand-crafted and each unique, like children.

I admired two of them, and he commented on my taste.  "The most expensive two in the store, Miss."  I smiled.  "Tell me your name," he half-asked, half-commanded.  "Rachel."  He spoke to me in Hebrew.  I smiled, "No, I'm Polish and Italian; just the name is Old Testament Biblical."  "I'm Isaac."

He commented on my laugh and asked where my husband was.  "No husband."  "Boyfriend?"  "No."  "Lover?"  "No."  "I'd be your boyfriend gladly.  You are lovely."

I laughed, "No, not really.  I scare men when they meet me."  "Fools--good taste, good name, good woman."  I selected a mirror and told him I would be back to pick it up.  "I'm giving you a good deal."

I came back today with my money, and he deducted more money from the price of  the mirror, "But only if you sit and have Turkish coffee with me."  He brewed it on his portable burner and added a bit of sugar.  "It's stronger than your Italian espresso."  That is was--refreshing and not bitter.  We drank our coffee at an old table covered in red carpeting; his work table, I imagine.

He offered me matzos with jelly which I declined as I wasn't hungry.  He ate and spoke of his time in Israel, how he met his wife and that it took two weeks to make love to her for the first time, "which I can remember like it was yesterday."  He told me of learning the glass trade; I teased him for his artisitic passions.  "Your work is so lovely; you can tell you appreciate beauty from the attention to details."  "I like beautiful women; it takes an hour and a half to pleasure a woman right--these men today are too fast."  I nearly snorted my coffee.  He told me that I was lovely for my laugh, my twinkling eyes, and smile--not a traditional beauty, but certainly sexy.  "You're too tired to be beautiful.  You need to rest, but do you realize how much passion burns for people to see?"  "They don't notice."

Then I sobbed.  He spoke in Hebrew and handed me paper towels in his dusty workroom.  "Someone will love you," he said, "a good man who understands an artist."  I looked at him with tears running down my face, "What do you mean by artist?"  "You speak like a poet--measured words."  I cried some more.  "I do enjoy writing."  "Then write.  That's all there is to it."

He gave advice and told more stories.

"Please come have coffee with me Saturday--have coffee with me one last time before I close the store and say good-bye to my passion.  Bring Emily with you--I would like to see your daughter."

Looks like I have a date.