Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

I try on a blue dress that ties at the back. I can’t ask the woman for help because she didn’t offer it, and because as a rule I try to avoid the words “excuse me.” I especially try to avoid the words “excuse me” when the next words are “can you zip me up?”

* * *

Instead, I look in the mirror with my eyes closed. I’m trying to picture what the blue dress would look like fully zipped.

5.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, Let me know if you need any sizes.

* * *

You’re not that hot either, I tell her.

6.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman asks me how I am today. How are you today, she says. It sounds like the beginning of a song. Not so great, I tell her; my dog just died. Brownie. I’ve had him since I was eight. Oh, she says. My dog sitter killed him, I add. She seems confused and I don’t know how to help her. Well, she says, let me know if you need anything.

7.

As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, Here, try this, too. She is handing me a navy-blue blazer. This is a small store, the kind some people call “boutique.” There is no one around but us. Is this your store? I ask. I like knowing what’s at stake. The blazer hangs between us on her outstretched arm as I wait for her answer. She shakes her head no, says, My aunt’s. She’s probably lying. I look around to be sure. No one’s aunt owns this store. Just thought you might like it, she says, I have the same one. She starts to turn around, but I grab the blazer first, to be polite. She did pick it just for me.

* * *

When I’m alone in the room, I look at the blazer, touch the inside of its only pocket with one finger. Maybe the woman wasn’t lying after all. I think about what it means — what it could mean — for two women to pick each other’s clothes. I want to know her closet as well as I know my own. I want to show her mine. I want us to coparent clothing items.

* * *

The blazer doesn’t fit. It makes me look like a man. I step outside anyway. Wow, the woman says, wow. I shake my head no. She seems shocked. You can’t be serious, she says. How do I explain that I wanted to love it? How do I explain that choosing something to wear means rejecting all the other clothes in the world, all the other selves I could be? I want to ask if she would like to have coffee one morning; in the mornings I explain myself much better. Thank you for your time, I say. Come back another day, she says. I smile, and the woman smiles back. Whether she lied earlier about the store or not, right now I can tell she’s telling the truth.

8.

As I enter the fitting room, I close the door and stand in my underwear in front of the mirror, afraid. I want to feel that my life cannot go on without this dress. It’s a beige dress with a white collar. There are tiny white butterflies all over, but you need to look closely to see. I slow down, slow down, slow down. But I can’t slow down enough. The moment still comes when I try it on and don’t fall in love. Falling in love never comes easy to me. I look at my disappointment. I say to my disappointment, Let’s keep trying. There is no intention in me when I say it, no truth. But I say it again, because even the worst lie turns real if you repeat it enough. Let’s keep trying.

9.

As I enter the fitting room, I regret avoiding the woman; I feel ready for eye contact. I stop and look, wait until she looks back. Hi, I say. Hi, she says, and starts moving toward me; can I help you? You helped me the other day, I say, with the blazer? I remember you, she says, and I nod because I’m not sure what to say. Are you going to try anything on? she asks. I am not holding any clothes. I’ve been thinking about that blazer, I tell her, that maybe it was just a new look, something I wasn’t used to. Can I see it again? I’m so sorry, she says, we sold that one. Her eyebrows are apologizing too. It’s gone.

10.

As I enter the fitting room, I wait for the knock on the door, followed by the saleswoman’s voice. How are you doing in there? she asks. You need anything?

We, the people of the great American city, we leave our city twice every week, and head north. Up north, there is a small American town where we, the people of the great American city, can learn new things.

There, in the small American town, we perfect our craft. We seek inspiration. We become a community. There, in the small American town, we are assigned mentors, and those mentors tell us that they once used to be just like us, young people of the great American city, traveling north in search of knowledge.

* * *

We, the people of the great American city, we are, in fact, women. Up north, we learn our gender is important. We sit on green velvet rugs and stare at dark wood burning in the fireplace, our mentors saying, Look beyond; imagine . Up north, we learn that fire is a screen, we learn to dream. Our mentors, they tell us of a world where women scratch tomatoes with their nails and the fruit doesn’t bleed. Up north, we think maybe that world can one day be our world.

We, the women of the great American city, when we are not up north, we roam our urban streets. We look for inspiration to hide inside our purses, we look for the kind that travels well. Instead, we, the women of the great American city, we find men. These men, they are not the men we have at home, waiting for us with a cooked meal. These men, they try to buy us and we try to ignore them, because up north, in the small American town, we’ve been taught that no comes in many forms.

We, the women of the great American city, we turn our backs on these men, and they then grade our backs, grade our asses. We, the women of the great American city, we usually get a ten. This ten, it excites us and revolts us, and we throw up at the side of the road. We, the women of the great American city, we then go home to our meal-cooking men, and our men see the remnants of puke on our lips and know what the streets of the big American city were like today. Our men, they wipe our faces clean of puke, and kiss our chaste, voluptuous lips.

We, the women of the great American city, we fuck our men on hot summer nights, because we despise weakness, and fucking feels like strength. We fuck our men whether we feel like it or not; we climb on top of them to prove a point, and the scent of our intestines has yet to fade.

We, the women of the great American city, we row the muscles of our men until they cannot tell pleasure from pain. Then we row some more. (We, the women of the great American city, we use our bodies to speak our minds.) We enjoy inflicting pain upon our men, and when they cry, we lick their tears: returning the favor of compassion.

We, the women of the great American city, we slap our men’s cheeks when they are dry of tears — we slap them hard. Our men, some of them don’t understand, and we, the women of the great American city, we have to explain it to them.

This is how we explain: we hold our men by their balls, and we squeeze. This squeeze, it hurts them, but it is necessary. This squeeze, it explains to them by way of the body, by way of pain, that we know. We know, the unbearable pain in their crotch tells them in no uncertain terms, that they, too, were once ass-grading men on the streets of the great American city. We know that deep down they still are, and further deep is where they always will be. Our men, they then cry like babies. Our men, they swear to us that they are different, that they love us.

We, the women of the great American city, the following morning we always drive north. We, the women of the great American city, we want to consult our mentors. This is what we want to know: how to trust. Our mentors, they say trust is overrated. They say the secret is simply to be , to get up in the morning without murder in your heart, and pour green tea into porcelain cups.