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It's Not Too Late For Love by Yaffa Feigin-Reich


Overview: When you follow your heart, it’s never too late for love.
At the age of 82, Shosh wants more from life. Three years after losing her husband Alex, she understands that she deserves to experience exciting and fulfilling love, despite her advanced age.
She meets and quickly confides in Mike, without knowing anything about his past about his relationship with her late husband. The love that sparks between them swiftly becomes a rollercoaster of dazzling passion and an extremely wild love life, accompanied by fractures of doubt and concerns that slowly come to light.
She begins to doubt Mike and tries to keep her distance, but at the same time loves him desperately and needs him by her side.
An extraordinary love story spanning two continents, but will Shosh and Mike manage to overcome the abyss that has opened between them?


It's Not Too Late For Love by Yaffa Feigin-Reich Book Chapter One


The year, 1975. Sasha Alexander (Alex) Newton nonchalantly leans on his elbows at the corner of the bar at the Tel Aviv Hilton hotel, with a glass of whiskey in hand. A seemingly eternal cigarette hangs naturally from the corner of his chiseled lips. A straight upturned nose, with brown hair and streaks of gold, broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was wearing an unbuttoned cotton shirt, made of a thin powder-blue fabric, exposing a thin patch of hair on his smooth and tanned chest.

He looked like the epitome of “what every woman wants,” and diving into his deep-blue eyes, one could get lost in those eyes, peering into the inner gaze, as if drowning in a profound lake, its shade shifting to gray steel according to his mood. The expression wrinkles on his face created a charming and sympathetic smile.

His right brow would curve sharply upward when he would carelessly blurt the sentence, which had become a cliché: “And whoever leaves this fucking country last should remember to turn off the lights in Lod” (Ben Gurion Airport’s former name).

Sasha was one of the famous former USSR aliyah activists who had come to Israel in the 70s. Thanks to his developed business sense, along with his national lectures, Sasha had quickly become one of the leading insurance agents in the country. However, he would always see himself as that same little boy, starving and fleeing for his life in WW-II Russia. That image was imprinted within the depths of his soul and would constantly torment him, like that heavy golden Star of David necklace he never took off, making him look like a crude macho-man. Yet it didn’t seem to bother him, as though he wanted to constantly remind himself how much he had succeeded and of the wealth he had gained. He would joke: “let them be jealous.”

Thanks to his high rank in the Red Army, Sasha left his army service at the IDF as a lieutenant colonel in the Paratroopers Brigade.

After an exhausting practice at the Hilton’s Nautilus spa gym, Shoshana (Shosh) Kineret sat in a comfy armchair in the corner of the hotel lobby. There, between the bar and wide windows overlooking the gardens facing the beach and surfers, she had a hot cup of coffee and carefully examined Alex.

The Good Life

Past events flash before Shosh’s eyes:

They’d known each other for two years, at least. He kept taking care of her insurance policy, by force of habit – her car insurance, apartment, personal injury coverage, all of which were a drop in the bucket compared to his business operation. Nowadays, he mostly managed industrial insurance for factories and powerful financial networks.

He would always carry out his business sternly, charging his commission in full, no discounts. He wouldn’t offer her any discounts, either, and would add almost apologetically, “I’m sorry, Shosh, but when it comes to business, I’m like a shark. I work according to my own seismograph, no special rates or discounts for friends. But you’ll always get premium service.”

“Marry me and you wouldn’t pay a dime,” he’d add casually, with a smile flickering in his bluish-gray eyes.

“Are you serious?” I asked. “I wouldn’t marry a Don Juan.”

“I love you, silly. There’s no one else.”

His company offices stretched over an entire floor in one of the new central Tel Aviv buildings. I would occasionally visit at the end of his workday, when the offices officially closed, where I would find him on his own. When I would arrive, he would immediately brew me a Turkish coffee with cardamom, and its aroma would spread through the room. We chatted as we bit into our crispy schnitzel and fries, wrapped in pita bread with hummus, tahini and salad. He had ordered this lunch earlier from the tower’s restaurant. After we finished our negotiation and I signed the necessary documents for the insurance policy renewal, I found myself embraced in his arms, with my head resting on his large and protective shoulder. I loved those moments.

I sat cradled his in arms, listening to his fascinating stories, later me telling him mine. We exchanged some pecks and fond bites of each other’s earlobes, necks and chins. We made out as his warm hand caressed my ample bosom, my perky nipples, and kept chatting to prolong the moments before our future pleasure.

From these conversation snippets, I got to know him, mostly the little boy inside of him, the one he had told me about on one of those days.

In the end, we got married. The wedding was highly covered by the media. Aside from all of my relatives and his friends, it was also attended by the then Prime Minster Golda Meir, head of the opposition Menachem Begin and his wife, Aliza, ministers, Tel Aviv celebrities of the day, academics, paparazzi, and a lot of good friends.

At the beginning of our marriage, we lived a life of lazy leisure. We had breakfast at our Tel Aviv penthouse facing the sea: aromatic, foamy cappuccino with rustic whole-wheat bread slices, smeared with salted butter and plenty of black caviar—received by the kilo from his friends from the former USSR—that we spread with a teaspoon.

We made love whenever we could and, in the evenings I would drive Alex, in our tax-free blue Volvo, to fascinating talks he would volunteer to give in different kibbutzim and other places to which he had been invited.

We loved each other a lot. We were crazily attracted to each other. Our life was good and our sex even better. At times, I would experience multiple orgasms, which would blow my mind, such divine sensation. What I truly never understood was why he’d ask me to take off my own underwear, even when he was insanely horny. Since we regularly went at it at least five times a day, I would walk around without underwear. I wore a simple floral robe with buttons, and he would occasionally approach me completely naked and horny in the kitchen, while I was cooking. He would then unbutton my short robe, grab my naked body and press me to him. Finally, we would find ourselves on the kitchen floor, dripping with sweat and desire, unaware that the food was about to burn. Only the smell of scorched pots brought us back to reality.

Naturally, this didn’t last throughout our entire marriage. Later on, it slightly dwindled, but the love was always there, even during crises. We had a charming and domineering daughter that we named Galit, but we fondly called her Gali. Alex’s business prospered; we would often travel abroad or go on vacations in Eilat and the Dead Sea. I managed to work and study, completing my master’s in political sciences. He kept working, lecturing and writing articles for the press. We kept having sex almost every day.

He was a heavy smoker, which finally left its mark on his health, but we still shared the same love through the years. Love was the operative word, we would collect love, like collecting mushrooms after the rain, like two surfers chasing the high tide in a stormy sea.

Toward the end, we no longer had full intercourse. We would hug, caress each other, and share each other’s company until the end—until his health deteriorated. Alex passed away February 1, 2016. I miss him so.


Alex went through a crisis the last months of his life; he would no longer leave the house. He would spend most of his time in the armchair or bed and suffered from bedsores. His memory faded too, the sharp look in his blue eyes had turned dull, but I could still feel all the emotion in them. A caregiver would come to bathe him, and we ordered a special bed for him to ease his pain. I sat beside him in his last moments and spoke to him as I held his warm hand. I felt how, little by little, life was running out of him.

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