“You think he’ll win?”
Shlomi shrugged. Elections or not, he was distracted by the scents wafting from the cart across the stone-paved alley. His wife would kill him if he drank any of the juices. Diabetes would kill him, too. So it was just a matter of whether it’ll happen on his terms.
Or not.
He sighed.
“Get that pomegranate juice,” Abdul urged. “You know no one makes it like my father does.”
Better die happy than sad.
“Abu Abdul,” Shlomi called across the narrow alley. “One pomegranate?”
“For sure, Habibi,” the old man grinned. “Want that fake-sugar in there?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Na'ama Yehuda 
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