For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form

“Missing Kissinger”

Etgar Keret


I traveled the whole way with the knife, two buses. A meter-and-a-half-long knife, it takes up two seats. I had to buy a ticket for it. What wouldn’t I do for her, what wouldn’t I do for you, baby? I walked all the way down Stampfer Avenue with the knife on my back like some would-be Islamic martyr. My mother knew I was coming, so she prepared food for me, with seasonings from hell, like only she knows how. I eat in silence; I haven’t got a bad word to say. If you eat prickly pears with the thorns on, you shouldn’t complain when you get piles. “And how’s Miri?” asks my mother. “Is she all right, the darling girl? Still sticking her chubby fingers in her cunt?” “She’s all right,” I say, “she’s fine. She asked for your heart. You know, so she can tell if I love her.” “Take her Baruch’s,” my mother laughs, “she’ll never notice the difference.”