look like?” I asked him. He considered. “You look like a Simone,” he said. “That’s me, Simone,” I said. He let it go; he was too excited to insist. I liked him: his soft green eyes, hisanxious shoulders, the way he talked about his collie and his trip to Italy on the way to my place.
But in bed, he barely knew what he was doing—though he wouldn’t admit it and tried hard not to show it. I had to explain some things to him; he was embarrassed and pretended he’d known all along. Everyone had told me I needed to see other men, but it didn’t work. The experience had no relation to anything that was going on in my life, to who I was or how I felt. After he left I soaked the sheets in soapy water and called Odelia. “I wonder why everyone thinks adultery is such a good thing,” I said. I told her about the boy and about the sheets soaking in the tub. “Washing sheets after the guy leaves … that’s always a bad sign,” she agreed. And then she apologized, because she’d been one of the people advising me to date. “Do what you feel is right,” she said.
For weeks afterward he called me every day, came knocking at my door. It turned out that he was sixteen and in high school. He was desperate, and it took a lot of energy getting rid of him, and I hurt him. I promised myself that this would be the last time, and it was.
But that night, after the demonstration in Ein Mazra’a and the two intrusive sentences in the letter to my father—that night I wanted distraction. And though I had no intention of letting this man follow me home, I didn’t send him away.
“I’ve seen you here,” the man said. “I’ve seen you walking here at all hours, as solitary as a wolf in the forest.”
I continued strolling along the shore, where the tide had created a smooth shelf of wet sand, flat and generous, giving us back the imprints of our shoes as we walked.
“Once I saw you with a camera slung around your neck,” the man said. “You were taking photographs at dusk. Is it okay with you that I’m walking next to you? Tell me if it isn’t. I don’t want to intrude.”
And this is where normally I would have said, “It isn’t okay, go away, I need to be alone.”
But I said, “I don’t mind.”
His spirits lifted. “You’re very kind,” he said. “You have a compassionate heart. It really shows on you, it sits on you like a coat. A coat of many colors,” he chuckled.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked him.
“I just came back from reserve duty, I came for a jog, to clear my mind,” he said. “To breathe in some sea air. You can feel the heat coming from the waves, but it’s a pleasant heat.”
I took another look at him, and it was true, he was dressed for jogging: running shoes, shorts, T-shirt. He looked reliable; he looked like someone you could trust to pick you up in his large arms and carry you if you fainted or had a seizure from tear gas. He would know not only what to do but also how to do it, because he was clever. You could tell these things from his eyes, his hands, and especially his way of speaking—not just his voice but also the interesting words he used, his perfect grammar. It was pleasing to the ear, his poetic use of language.
“You use nice words,” I said.
“Nice words?” He was puzzled.
“Yes.”
“No one ever said that to me.”
“People don’t notice things.”
“I never noticed,” he laughed. “What sort of nice words?”
“The way you speak, the phrases you use.”
“Come to think of it, I did very well on the vocabulary part of my psychometric exam. I remember they remarked on that, they were impressed. I just have a good memory. Maybe one day I’ll write a novel. About reincarnation. A man who was a warrior in the days of the Bible, reborn today …a hero from ancient times, like Samson, let’s say. Fighting the Philistines.The whole story of Samson repeated, because he’s a reincarnation. Do you believe in
But in bed, he barely knew what he was doing—though he wouldn’t admit it and tried hard not to show it. I had to explain some things to him; he was embarrassed and pretended he’d known all along. Everyone had told me I needed to see other men, but it didn’t work. The experience had no relation to anything that was going on in my life, to who I was or how I felt. After he left I soaked the sheets in soapy water and called Odelia. “I wonder why everyone thinks adultery is such a good thing,” I said. I told her about the boy and about the sheets soaking in the tub. “Washing sheets after the guy leaves … that’s always a bad sign,” she agreed. And then she apologized, because she’d been one of the people advising me to date. “Do what you feel is right,” she said.
For weeks afterward he called me every day, came knocking at my door. It turned out that he was sixteen and in high school. He was desperate, and it took a lot of energy getting rid of him, and I hurt him. I promised myself that this would be the last time, and it was.
But that night, after the demonstration in Ein Mazra’a and the two intrusive sentences in the letter to my father—that night I wanted distraction. And though I had no intention of letting this man follow me home, I didn’t send him away.
“I’ve seen you here,” the man said. “I’ve seen you walking here at all hours, as solitary as a wolf in the forest.”
I continued strolling along the shore, where the tide had created a smooth shelf of wet sand, flat and generous, giving us back the imprints of our shoes as we walked.
“Once I saw you with a camera slung around your neck,” the man said. “You were taking photographs at dusk. Is it okay with you that I’m walking next to you? Tell me if it isn’t. I don’t want to intrude.”
And this is where normally I would have said, “It isn’t okay, go away, I need to be alone.”
But I said, “I don’t mind.”
His spirits lifted. “You’re very kind,” he said. “You have a compassionate heart. It really shows on you, it sits on you like a coat. A coat of many colors,” he chuckled.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked him.
“I just came back from reserve duty, I came for a jog, to clear my mind,” he said. “To breathe in some sea air. You can feel the heat coming from the waves, but it’s a pleasant heat.”
I took another look at him, and it was true, he was dressed for jogging: running shoes, shorts, T-shirt. He looked reliable; he looked like someone you could trust to pick you up in his large arms and carry you if you fainted or had a seizure from tear gas. He would know not only what to do but also how to do it, because he was clever. You could tell these things from his eyes, his hands, and especially his way of speaking—not just his voice but also the interesting words he used, his perfect grammar. It was pleasing to the ear, his poetic use of language.
“You use nice words,” I said.
“Nice words?” He was puzzled.
“Yes.”
“No one ever said that to me.”
“People don’t notice things.”
“I never noticed,” he laughed. “What sort of nice words?”
“The way you speak, the phrases you use.”
“Come to think of it, I did very well on the vocabulary part of my psychometric exam. I remember they remarked on that, they were impressed. I just have a good memory. Maybe one day I’ll write a novel. About reincarnation. A man who was a warrior in the days of the Bible, reborn today …a hero from ancient times, like Samson, let’s say. Fighting the Philistines.The whole story of Samson repeated, because he’s a reincarnation. Do you believe in
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