The sign in the window reads
We stand with Israel but I decide to go in anyway. The proprietor, a tall, almost gaunt older man with a substantial beard and a soft smile, greets me as I enter. I see him around the neighborhood where I’ve lived for almost sixteen years, and he always greets me.
I wander through the small shop and its narrow aisles until I find what I’m looking for: a small plastic bag, tied with a twist-tie, with four pillowy pitas in it - the perfect accompaniment to the hummus I made last night.
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