Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

Thursdays are the busiest. She never understood why. On Wednesdays, her BlackBerry keeps buzzing with men’s anticipation until she feels like there are bees inside her ears. So on Wednesdays, saying no is important. I miss you, too, Baby; really wish I could. Every man is Baby, no exception; that she learned early on. Even the sophisticated ones appreciate the gesture: the implicit warmth, the promise of anonymity. But she does know their names, of course, sometimes even their last name, and on a few occasions the name of a wife, a mother, a sister they haven’t spoken to in six years. It pains them, that the sister won’t return their calls. They ask, Why won’t she fucking let it go already? Nadine doesn’t want to look for answers. If they insist on talking, she touches their hair, lets her eyes scroll up and down their torso; she waits for their body to remember what it wants. Really, she waits for the chatter to stop, but the trick is still giving it the space it needs. Once, when it was absolutely necessary, she made tea.

* * *

Generally speaking, she remembers more than she should: the bump on the back of their neck, the sweat behind their ear right before they come, the scar on the toe of their left foot and the story behind it. There is always a story behind it. They tell the stories and then retell them. Because, well: if she doesn’t truly exist, surely she doesn’t remember; they desperately need to believe that she isn’t real. But then there are times when she can see sadness in their eyebrows, in their lower back, and suddenly they want her to remember. Temporarily, they acknowledge her presence in the world. It’s funny, but you are the most stable thing in my life, you know? In these moments, she has learned, a nod goes a long way.

* * *

The woman, the photographer, Mia, has been dominating her thoughts. Now Nadine even dreams of her. Last night, Mia was elected World President.

Nadine wants to know things like what’s Mia’s favorite fruit, what she looks like when she cries. Mia . She rolls Mia’s name on her tongue until she sounds like a cat. Mia wants to know her, too: the first thing she said was I’d like to get to know you, if you’d let me. But Mia wants to know her the way a painter wants to know her canvas. Besides, there is always a lens between them.

* * *

Mia reached her through a friend of a friend of a friend, someone Nadine hadn’t talked to in years. On the phone, Mia sounded aggressive, and Nadine wanted to say, Sorry, I don’t think I’m interested. But for a few minutes she chewed the words like she chews her gum before falling asleep, unable to spit. Finally she said, Okay . She said it softly, and Mia didn’t hear her, so she had to repeat. Okay . Nadine assumed they would meet at some bar or café. I work on the Lower East Side , she told Mia, plenty of places to choose from . But Mia said it would be helpful, for the project , if she could see Nadine’s apartment. She may have used the words natural environment . As in: seeing you in your natural environment.

* * *

Nadine cleaned her natural environment even though it was already clean. She bought a new plant for the spot between the TV and the sofa that always looked naked. She made cupcakes, but also got cheese and wine, because she wasn’t sure what the occasion called for. And all the while she was asking herself why she cared so much. People never want to come all the way up to Washington Heights, and there weren’t many people in her life these days anyway, so maybe that’s all it was, she wasn’t used to hosting. But then, in the shower, where her thoughts are always honest, a different answer came: it was the word the photographer kept using. Interview . As in “Last week, Madonna sat down with us for an interview…” or “In a recent interview, the secretary of state expressed her concern…”

I’m conducting interviews with a few women — pretty long, thorough interviews, the photographer said in an accent Nadine couldn’t quite place, the words going fast and their ends hard, and then, you know, hopefully I’ll find the best fit for the project, and hopefully she’ll want to go ahead and work together … She laughed what must have been a nervous laugh, but it didn’t sound nervous, and Nadine would later learn that nothing Mia did appeared nervous. If the photographer chose her, Nadine would be photographed and then, if all goes well (Nadine wasn’t quite sure what that meant), the photographs would be on display at some gallery for the world to see. In the shower, Nadine imagined an old Jewish couple, a young babysitter, a professor at Columbia; they were all at the gallery, looking at Nadine’s body in the pictures, and even though Nadine had never met them, they now possessed an intimate knowledge of her, because that’s what photographs do, isn’t it? Reveal .

* * *

A photograph: Nadine is standing in her small kitchen, waiting for the water to boil. There’s a yellow and tired quality to the room. Her back to the camera, Nadine is looking to the side, the left half of her face visible. She is about to make tea for herself and for Mia: green ceramic cups to Nadine’s right, empty and waiting. There is nothing suggestive in the picture, nothing that tells the viewer how Nadine earns a living. What you can see is something like disappointment, and this you can see in Nadine’s posture and, if you look closely, in her facial expression. Nadine is disappointed because Mia already has her camera out. All that clicking. How can you talk to someone who just click-clicks all the time? How can you get to know someone who reaches for the camera every time she feels something? You cannot. There is a brief moment in which this understanding sinks in, and the camera captures it.

* * *

Sometimes Mia forgets to ask permission. She moves things in Nadine’s apartment to better situate herself — the couch, the seashell sculpture, even the TV. Nadine tenses when Mia touches the sculpture — it was made especially for her, years ago, by a man who could make anything with his hands, a man she hoped to marry — but when Mia lifts the TV with ease, Nadine feels light. She smiles, but another thing Mia sometimes forgets is to smile back. This happens when she is deep in thought. Then she catches herself. The knowledge that she was rude always passes through her like a wave, sudden and tall. By now, Nadine knows to wait for it: something like sadness in Mia’s eyes, and then her spine curves, which looks a bit like she is shaking something off. Then the laughter, quick. Then, sometimes: What can I say, I’m Israeli, aggressive by nature. The only other Israeli Nadine knows is a client, a man who sells rugs on Long Island for a living. He is gentle and weak and likes to be pinched hard.

* * *

When Mia pushes the limits, Would you be comfortable taking some of your clothes off , she looks at Nadine with soft eyes that say I will look at you all the way to yes.

* * *

Maybe next time , Nadine says, because she doesn’t want the eyes to stop.

* * *

One thing she wishes she could explain to Mia: she doesn’t mind the moans. Or more honestly, though this embarrasses her: the moans are her favorite part. When seeing a client for the first time, that is what she’s curious about, and she waits for that one moment, when the animal in him speaks to her. When the moment comes, she listens carefully — through the sound, through the exhale of it. There is information there, knowledge , for her to collect. She does. Later, when she uses this knowledge, the men moan more deeply, openly, air coming out through their throats, their teeth, their pores. This reveals more information, and so on, and so on.