Pissing, I could see an older woman squatting in the garden next-door inspecting the roses for bugs. White tennis shorts hitched revealing thighs glistening in the Upper Galilee sun. Quite the body on that gal! I’m embarrassed she’ll spy me through the window holding a half-chub. She looks over, smiling wryly, flipping a gray lock behind an ear. A wink? Hard to tell through transition lenses. I hit the small flusher bumping Tomer in the hall.“She’s got quite a crop,” I needlessly explain. "Okra. Looks like bamya for Shabbot. And roses.”
“Yoyo’s garden is overgrown but doing Okay without her.”
“Well, she’s back at it.”
“Yoyo died. Aneurysm.”
“Died? Nice-looking gal? Pixie cut, glasses, legs?”
I peek out, stomach sinking. The garden is empty.
Tomer nods, “That’s about right or maybe… all these old kibbutzniks look the same.”
Or maybe she’s just a Ghost I’d Like to F—.
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