Jerusalem
I followed the back of your white t-shirt through the Old City that afternoon in early November, past ancient tunnels of brick and stone, flush with the scent of coffee and ta’china , where elderly men with white beards and head coverings would say hello beside tables of golden jewelry; the echoing sounds of distant bells, of coins in a leather purse. This was your beat, your territory, you told me. And though you were being difficult, you were my guide. So I followed you. Not wanting to give you the pleasure that I detected you derived from walking next to me, I always hung back about twelve paces behind. The narrow streets were quiet that day and it was easy to keep you in my sight. Plus, you were a good guide. Every now and then you would turn around to make sure I was keeping up. And if I had stopped to marvel at something beautiful—a dark wooden chair with ornate brass trimmings and cloudy glass shards of mother of pearl, pieced together as a mosaic and inlaid into the seat;