In Brooklyn, my mother and I lived with a man named Menachem who taught me two sentences in Hebrew: “I love you” and “I need $500.”
Manny’s body was covered in hair as thick as wool, but his skin was slick, smoothed with baby oil. He never left the house without Afrin nasal spray and toothpicks. He drove a station wagon with buckets of paint, turpentine…
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