floating in a tin can

jewsinspace
spaceodyssey

It’s hard for Michael to pay attention to the television; the words sound distant, the images seem inconsequential. It’s not just that he feels fuzzy with wine and food, or exhausted from working all day and staying up late, or distracted by Lee’s sweet-smelling warmth curled up against him. He feels different, in a deep-down way that he can’t ignore. Changed.

He thinks of the way Lee had sounded speaking the familiar Hebrew; of how strangely new the Haggadah he’d bought felt in his hands, and of the memory of choosing it and knowing he had a choice; of the tastes of salt water and horseradish and the charoset Lee had made. There are still candles burning on the table, he can smell them. Lee had gotten so much wine that it’s hardly gone yet. A half-finished glass of his is sitting out (he’d promised her he’d go back for it).

Celebrating Purim without Morris had been strange, but conducting his own seder was something else entirely. He hadn’t realized what was involved until it was happening. He’s not sure he knows the full extent of it even now.

Celebrating Pesach with Lee is also strange. Good, very good—Michael would even say powerful—but strange. He's used to knowing where he stands in relation to Morris's convictions, and there’s a lot about Lee’s Judaism that he doesn’t know and isn't sure how to ask about. But the fact that she agreed to do this with him, well. That's enough for him, here and now.

“Hey,” he murmurs next to her ear. “Thank you.”