Orthodox jew dating
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She smiled when we met outside the Brooklyn house where the klezmer concert took place. Later, she leaned over and put her head on my shoulders. It was problematic enough that I was kissing her, but this seemed beyond the pale. After we went up for air a few times, my train came and saved me from my thoughts. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had done, about what it meant. I was comfortable then, sitting in oversized seats, drinking coffee at a café with board games. We left as men and women sang “Deportees.” As we walked back to the train and she held onto my scratchy tweed-clad arm, I felt a heaviness in my bag.
She kissed me one last time on the cheek, with permission. As I transferred to another train at Times Square and rode an escalator up, I saw another couple on the escalator going down, making out. But every time her name pops up on my Facebook wall, my heart skips a beat.
For a second, I re-calculate the mental math, trying to make it work.
Would I hurt her feelings by ending the embrace mid-moment? She then invited me to a café near her place in Astoria for a folk-music singalong. Growing up, I sang the traditional Hebrew and Yiddish songs every Shabbat, but also folks songs and tunes by Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, and Phil Ochs, a merging of the secular world and the religious one. For three hours, we didn’t say much, just listened to the music, enjoyed being with each other.
Was I throwing this all away after more than two decades of good behavior? The cafe was near her house, and I was anxious that she’d invite me over afterward. As we walked in, I felt a warm feeling of nostalgia coming from the old people singing the Woody Guthrie song “Pretty Boy Floyd.” We whispered to each other, and her face was lit up by the candle on the table.