She chose this life, so why did she feel so stifled?

I

t’s not really the ants. Or the freshly fried schnitzel crawling with scurrying black things.

They’re not really the reason that she’s perched on the edge of an ugly beige bathtub, bawling and ruining her mascara.

They’re just, well, the final straw.

Tehillah slides down to the tiled floor (that always looks grimy, no matter what) and dials Sheva. It’s eight a.m. in America; her friend is nauseatingly cheery.

“Chamudah,” Sheva cackles, in a shabby imitation of the seminary cook. “Chamudah, it’s an ant. It’s teeny-tiny-piiiiitzky. Who’s bigger, you or the ant?”

She wants to throw the phone across the room.

“Seriously, Tills.” Sheva sobers up. “I know it’s horrible. But it’s just ants. Go to the supermarket, buy a spray, you’ll get rid of them. I had them a few weeks ago, and it cleared up really fast.”

“Really? You had ants? In your three-bedroom mansion?”

Sheva laughs. “Ants aren’t native to Ashdod, honey. We get them in Teaneck, too.” Her voice is muffled. “Listen, I need to get to work. You’ll be fine. You’ll make grilled cheese for supper. I promise, he’ll survive just this once.”

“What if I tried the schnitzel already? I’m fleishigs.”

Sheva snorts. “Go kill ants.”