Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

When the body doesn’t want you breathing deep anymore, you don’t argue. People who don’t understand this end up dead before their time. What you do is you say Thank you for the oxygen, and you breathe low. This is something I learned after Saul, and I was thinking on the phone with Ludvig I should teach him, because I could hear his effort. But I didn’t, I just said Anything you need, Ludvig, you let me know, because I thought, Yolanda, give him time. People need time to grieve their grief the wrong way first. Who would have thought he’d need so little of it?

* * *

A new relationship is nobody’s business, if you ask me. It needs the attention of the people who are in it, not the people around it. And one thing I have learned is when you look at other people looking at you, you end up seeing the wrong things. Young people today, they have it all wrong. They think you have to show your happiness all the time. And there they were, Ludvig and Henrietta, silly like young people, announcing their love to everyone. Not with words, of course, but you live as long as I have, you know words matter very little. Especially words like volunteer or orphans —those are words people say only when they mean something else. Henrietta and Ludvig were announcing their new love with their hands — they were holding hands. They were greeting everyone at the door, Ludvig in a suit and a bow tie — I had never seen him wear a bow tie — and they were holding hands.

I thought for a moment this must be some sort of mistake — how do they even know each other? And what would they possibly have in common? They are such different people. But of course it wasn’t a mistake.

Henrietta said Yolanda, would you consider joining us? I think you’d find it so gratifying . Gratifying, she said — I would find socks gratifying. I said I’m sure I would, but you know in all honesty since Saul I don’t get out of the house much. I looked at Ludvig when I said it, to make sure he heard. And of course Henrietta said Oh that’s not good Yolanda and all that nonsense — she’s a lovely woman, but if there’s any way to use a slogan you can be sure Henrietta will do it. She quoted something about grief — I can’t remember what and I didn’t quite listen, because I wanted to say What do you know about grief, Henrietta? You can’t abandon your husband and then teach other people about grief. But her abandoning, that was many years ago. No one cares about that anymore, I suppose. No one cares that not all grief is the same. So I said You’re right, Henrietta, you’re absolutely right. I looked at Ludvig again when I said it. He nodded. Henrietta always liked to hear she was right.

1.

We have been indoors for many days and long nights now, due to fear of disappointment. Our fear is rational, fact-based. When we go outside — if we go outside — we will be devastated. We will want life to feel as it did that night, and life will fail us. After that night at Lamplight with Gary, life is bound to forever fail us.

2.

That night, we spoke with abandon. We drank in good rhythm. We befriended former lovers, tapped their left shoulder with only one finger, even though we were many. Do you go to the gym, we asked each other that night. Do you at least plan to go? But we never answered. We didn’t have to.

* * *

That night, we counted uncountable things — the advantages of dairy, the siblings we never had. There were moments when we twirled our hair coyly, and in those moments our hair was the kind that twirls well. When we hummed, everyone enjoyed it. Our smiles were the texture of ice cream, which is to say we could be cold and still perceived as sweet. It was our birthday that night, it was Gary’s book party, it was everyone’s Christmas. We didn’t know it walking in, but it was true, and we had the gifts to prove it. The more we gifted, the more we got, and Lamplight was getting wrapping-paper crowded. Isn’t there an old adage about that, someone asked. And there was. There was an old adage.

3.

We had no special expectations that night — just Gary, reading. He had never been a poet before, or if he was, we knew nothing of it. He was a foot surgeon last we saw him, which was in Argentina and a while back. Before that he sold snakes to collectors, and before that the cooking show, of course — the one that made him famous.

* * *

You can’t see Gary and not want to bed him, but that night wasn’t about sex. Walking into Lamplight and seeing Gary, we knew that right away. Tonight was too good for sex.

4.

We danced ourselves happy that night, lightness in our toes, our heels. But we were also productive, successful. We found solutions to problems, fixed things that were previously broken. Some people were cooking or baking, some were inventing gadgets that would replace umbrellas. It wasn’t raining that night, not yet, but we were seeing the bigger picture. Everyone felt understood. It was an unspoken rule that night — if anyone said anything, everyone stopped and listened. We followed with nodding, just to make sure.

5.

When we stepped outside, it was pouring but silent. We stood there, looking at the rain, hearing nothing. Strange, isn’t it, we said half to Gary, half to the sky. Some storms are silent, Gary said, shrugging. In his head, he was already under the covers, perhaps with a lady or two. Sometimes Gary was a tourist, but that night he was savvy. He knew the ways of our town. Come home with us, we whispered. We wanted to touch his cheek, but we knew better. This wasn’t Argentina. I had a good time, Gary said. Thanks. He smiled his Gary smile at us, and we knew the night was over.

6.

Indoors, the walls are inching toward us. Every few hours, we measure the distance. The rain is loud outside, always loud, and we try not to listen. We talk about that night a lot, but as time goes by, it gets harder to remember. Did we grow strawberries? we ask. Did we suck on their long stems, did it make Gary laugh? We usually say yes, yes we did. Gary laughed, we say, he laughed his quiet Gary laugh. But we can never be sure.

* * *

Every once in a while, the rain seems to stop. We look out the window, and it’s hard to tell; all we see is wetness and fog. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the loudness quiets down. We gather in the center of the room so we won’t measure the distance. We sit in a circle and try to pretend that we are back at Lamplight. We sit in a circle and listen to the silence until we remember loud enough to feel.

1.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, My name is Andy, if you need anything.

* * *

What is your name if I don’t need anything? I ask.

2.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman asks, What’s your name?

* * *

Dora Freud, I say.

* * *

Have I pushed it too far? Probably not. In the fitting-room world, I’ve learned, too far doesn’t happen easy. She doesn’t blink. Dora, my name is Lauren if you need anything.

3.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman counts the clothes I have picked. Using blue chalk, she writes a number on the fitting-room door. Seven.

* * *

She is wrong. I have eight items. Briefly, I stare at the woman’s mistake. I say nothing, and by saying nothing I transform the mistake into a lie.

4.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman counts the clothes I have picked, and as she is counting she is avoiding my eyes. She is looking at the line behind me. What is your name, I want to ask her, and Don’t you want to know mine? But this is not that kind of place.