Read The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel for Free Online Page B

life!’ It’s used like a toast,” he tells me in an overexplanatory way.
    “I know,” I say.
    “Oh, you do?” He sure gets a kick out of something. “And do you?” he asks Krista.
    “I do now,” she says. “I’ll try the cabernet.”
    “Me too.”
    He pours a taste of the wine into our glasses, pouring off a drop into a glass for himself. He lifts his glass and motions for us to do the same.
    “L’chayim!”
he says as we click our goblets together. The sound resonates in a quick, light ping. The wine tastes surprisingly good.
    “Want to circulate?” Krista asks.
    Zev looks at me before we leave. “Come back later,” he says. “I’ll tell you all about the origin of kosher wine.”
    “Good deal,” I say, and we’re off.
    Unlike the mob scene of DOWN, the lights are on, and you can see everyone in the room. This is not necessarily a good thing. Services are also held in here. On occasion I’ve attended; they are lively and musical. Upstairs are pews, but down here are freestanding chairs, now pushed against the walls. Rich red carpet covers the spacious room, regal with stained-glass windows, the high ceiling exposing thick metal beams.
    “Look to your right,” says Krista. We walk the periphery of the room, classical music playing in the background. Two guys, standing and drinking wine, have been looking at Krista and me. One wears a yarmulke. “Come on,” she says, leading me over.
    “Krista . . .”
    I know she wants to date someone Jewish, but I don’t think she’s actually up for someone JEWISH. For all my conflicts about religion with Peter, I know the extent to which I want to be
religious.
But I feel the beauty of the Jewish religion is that it
is
so vast; so open to interpretation and individuation, there is room for all. Krista approaches and claims her space.
    “Hi,” she says. With a white silk camisole under a black cashmere shrug, she looks, as always, like she stepped off a page of
InStyle.
“I’m Krista Dowd, and this is—”
    “Wait, let me guess,” says the guy with the yarmulke. “You two are
Friends
, right? So you’re like the blonde one,” he says to Krista. “And you . . .” He studies me. “You’re kind of like Monica. The one that’s supposed to be Jewish on that show. Gimme a break. Okay. So you’re Dowd, and you’re—?”
    Wait. He thinks I look like
her
? If only. Her hair’s dark. And I’m hardly that thin. But I’m flattered.
    “I’m Aimee. Aimee Albert,” I say, and emphasize Albert. “But I spell
Aimee
the French way,” I explain, as I always do, liking the added cachet the spelling gives my otherwise ordinary name.
    “Of course you do,” says the guy who’s yarmulkeless. We sit with the awkward moment until he says, “Dave and Stew,” pointing to himself before his friend. “It’s nice to have you here. We don’t usually see women like you at these events.”
    Krista continues to chat, finding out what the men do, and hearing all about the merits of kosher wine. Interested in neither the grapes nor the guys, I observe. My observations propel me to make my excuses to the group. As I walk through the room, I feel eyes all over me. Not just men, but women. Seeing a small group of three, I decide to introduce myself.
    “I’ve come to these events to meet men, but I probably miss out on meeting lots of nice women,” I say. “Did you all come together?”
    “We always do,” says the one in the middle. Pretty and plump, short dark hair, and what is referred to as a Jewish nose, reminiscent of the one I had.
    “Safety in numbers,” I respond.
    “Well, I doubt you and your friend will need much protection,” she says, referencing Krista, who joins us. But as soon as she does, two other men come to the outskirts of the circle. I hang back, assuming they are here for Krista, but together they zoom in. One on Krista, and the other on me.
    “How’d you both find out about this party?” the better looking of the two asks