Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

We had a plan: separate apartments. It’s the difference between cooking to surprise a lover, and cooking because your lover is hungry, we said. But every morning we’d wake up together, unable to remember the previous night. Unwittingly, we started using the same Laundromat. At the grocery store, we found ourselves aware of each other’s preferences, shopping for two. Why am I choosing semisoft tomatoes? one of us would think; I always said soy can’t be milk , the other would mumble, carton in hand. Soon, the elaborate ring of keys felt heavy in our pockets, and the clinking sound it made annoyed us.

* * *

We found a house with leaves on every window. We were undressing each other so often that some days putting clothes back on seemed a waste of time. We appreciated the trees for this reason — they made it so we could be naked and believe ourselves unobserved. Except, that is, for the force, which, we assumed, if it wanted to watch us would not be deterred by greenery.

* * *

After a while, one of us — and it truly doesn’t matter who — had a crisis in the family. We have different memories of what the crisis was — one of us believes a beloved aunt fell ill, while the other remembers it clearly as a sibling’s drug problem. What is not in dispute is that solving the crisis involved travel and an extended stay, and that while one of us was packing, the other felt terrified, and thrilled.

* * *

While one of us was away, the other started working long hours, creating expectations in the office that later proved difficult to amend. We were not working in the same office by then, but we were still in the same business — figuring out if companies needed to get bigger or smaller — and we both understood the nature of that business.

* * *

We still talk about that trip often — it seemed to take something away from us, and perhaps give something in return. We admit that freely, often over a glass of wine, and one of us tickles the other’s knee to remind us we are still playful.

* * *

Over time, we got in the habit of taking our own clothes off when needed. When you undress yourself, you have plenty of time to close a curtain, and so the trees grew less important. But we still loved the green on our windows, especially when the yellow of the sun mixed with it a particular way. Such views were hard to come by in our state — most living quarters were overlooking other living quarters. We fully accepted that our love for our windows meant staying in our rather expensive home. And we accepted that that, in turn, meant one of us — the one making more money — had to work even longer hours. It seemed necessary to have a home that looked like a home, if we were ever to have children, which we kept feeling we would want next year. That’s life, we both said, and shrugged. During the workday, we texted each other often.

* * *

These days, we have a good division of labor in the household. We hug each other often, to convey support. We cook — dinner, sometimes breakfast, and definitely brunch on weekends. We own a humidifier.

We’re big on personal hygiene — a shower or a bath every day, sometimes two. Showers and baths are taken separately, for convenience. We fantasize about a big house. Our big house would have exposed-brick walls, a fireplace, and a Jacuzzi where two people could bathe together and save time. The big house is not our only fantasy: sometimes we fantasize about other people. ( It’s only natural , we remind ourselves; we try to forget our past.) We eat cereal frequently. We often stay up late. We take turns buying soap and toilet paper. We never watch Doctor Phil.

* * *

Occasionally, we see our friends, many of whom have developed a drinking problem. They spike their iced teas, lean back and stare at things we can’t see. They don’t touch the tips of our shoulders. They ask about our house and our jobs, and we ask about theirs, but most of the time no one answers. Sometimes they ask about our old spouses, about how they’re doing. We say we hear one of them got a dog, the other a cat. We say both of them have moved away. We say from all accounts they are happy, dating. For all we know, these things could be true.

* * *

Sometimes we go to parties. We talk to new people at these parties — some couples, some who are not coupled. These people are mostly attractive, and sometimes they say things like Hi, I’m Shira. They find an excuse to touch one of us while the other is eating Brie in another part of the room. I love your shirt; is it silk?

* * *

When we come home, we look for gray spots under our skin. We shake a little as we uncover ourselves to see. Every time, our skin is clear. We stand there for a moment, looking. Then we start touching each other with relief.

* * *

We realize, of course, that one day the force may strike again, leaving one of us breathless at the side of the road. We realize, but we try not to think about that. When we do, we say things like This understanding only makes us stronger. Sometimes one of us nods, says, Right , then adds, But how, exactly? It’s as if all that exists for us is the present, the other says; in it, we must stand still, hold each other firmly.

Saturday

Saturdays we’d have brunch at Curly’s. Sophia said Definitely Curly’s, no brunch in the city better than Curly’s and no neighborhood better than the East Village on a Saturday morning. She said morning but really she meant afternoon.

At Curly’s they serve brunch till four p.m. on Saturdays. Anything you want done vegan you can get, and if you asked Sophia that’s just the way the world should be. We always got too much food, but too much food on purpose is different from too much food by mistake; when there’s no miscalculation involved, too much food is simply called supper, or sometimes brunch for Sunday. Also at Curly’s, they give you a brunch drink for free with every brunch entrée ordered. Also tea. If you say you don’t like tea and can you please get two drinks instead, sometimes they say yes, sometimes no. One of the things about Sophia: she asks questions, the world says yes. Two of the waitresses became her friends, a third fell in love. So Saturdays at Curly’s, usually we got buzzed, and fake bacon never tasted better.

What happens when you get buzzed but you’re already a little bit buzzed from the night before is that you feel free . So Saturdays at Curly’s was the time of the week when I would say things to Sophia like I love you so much, you are the best roommate anyone could ask for, and the worst: I hope we’ll be like this forever. Kir in hand, Sophia would laugh every time, finger my cheekbones (both sides, slowly), and say, Booney-Boo, you know there’s no such thing as forever.

Sunday

Even though microwave-heated Curly’s huevos rancheros is nothing like the original, brunching with Sophia on our living-room floor (we only got a coffee table two weeks before I moved out) was my favorite Sunday activity. I’d get the blue-yellow blanket from the bedroom and we’d call it Indoor Picnic.

But not every Sunday was Indoor Picnic Sunday. Some Sundays Sophia would wake up in the morning and, after brushing her teeth and before getting coffee, say, I can’t be domesticated today. I knew better than to show disappointment, because show Sophia that you’re disappointed and you can count on being alone for a week. So I’d say, Cool, what’d you have in mind? because that was my way of saying maybe we can do something undomesticated together. But when Sophia wanted to feel undomesticated it usually meant she needed time away from me, so she’d say, Oh, you know I can’t think before my first cup of coffee.