Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

Have you read the reviews? Mia asks. Nadine doesn’t know anything about any reviews. No , she says. Don’t , Mia says, and chuckles, those critics did not go easy on me. Okay then , Nadine says, I won’t. Oh, I’m joking , Mia says, of course you can read them . Nadine resists the urge to take Mia’s hand as she says, These are beautiful, Mia, they’re all beautiful . She feels a bit strange saying this, she doesn’t mean to suggest she herself is beautiful, of course, but Mia is nodding now, closes her eyes, says, I’m very happy to hear you say that . There’s a moment of silence before Mia says, The critics are right, though, that’s the worst part; I’m always reaching for something and not quite getting there . What is Nadine supposed to say to that? Look at you , she wants to say. Dare to look at you, and maybe you’ll get there. But she says nothing.

* * *

Outside the gallery they hug, and a car screeches and comes to a full stop for no apparent reason. For a moment they both look at the driver, then Nadine looks at Mia and shrugs, and the car is back on its way. They hug again, because it is easier than saying goodbye, and at the end of that hug Mia grabs Nadine’s shoulders, looks straight into her eyes, says, Thank you . Nadine shakes her head and looks down.

* * *

Then there is nothing to do but for Mia to take her hands off Nadine’s shoulders, and when she does there is a sensation between them, a balloon letting go of the air inside it. Nadine wants to stand there with that feeling a bit, but she knows that if she does the next thing that happens will be restlessness, Mia’s restlessness. And she knows this: she needs to leave before the restlessness comes, or restlessness will be the last thing they ever share. Goodbye, then , Nadine says, and Mia says, Bye , and her eyes seem to tear up a bit, but Nadine isn’t sure, it might be from the wind. And on that thought Nadine turns around and walks away, hoping that Mia is standing there looking at her. If she is, she is no doubt noticing the composition — the widening of the street toward the end of the block, the sprawling streetlights and brown skies, Nadine’s back getting smaller — and she is squinting and gently biting her lip, regretting that she doesn’t have her camera.

I grew up in another language. For teaching me to write in English, for showing me how to be a person and a woman and a writer in New York — I’m indebted to more people than I could ever list here.

Elizabeth Reichert, this book is yours as much as it is mine.

PJ Mark, it has recently been scientifically proven, is the best literary agent on earth. Thank you, PJ, for believing in me so long before there was any real reason to. And thank you for saying “a book is born when it is ready to be born.”

Emily Bell is a rockstar editor. Rumor has it some writers are now tattooing her name on their bodies. Thank you, Emily, for your skill and for your heart.

FSG is full of rockstars, and I am grateful to every single one of them, especially Jeff Seroy, who responds to e-mails before he receives them, and Brian Gittis, a magician in glasses.

A huge thank-you also goes out to everyone at Random House Canada, and mostly to Kiara Kent. Kiara, thank you for your generosity and your kindness and your intelligence.

My parents, Avi and Eliya Oria, and my sister, Dana Oria, are three of my most favorite people in this world, and they are the people I talk to when I forget how to breathe. Each of them is a powerhouse of strength and talent, and together they are an army.

My two years at the MFA writing program at Sarah Lawrence College taught me most of what I know as a writer. In my life, SLC has been a gift that keeps on giving, and I am forever grateful to everyone in that community.

The following humans helped tremendously with early versions of these stories and/or showed up for me in more ways than I can count: Melissa Febos, Nelly Reifler, Caitlin Delohery, Hossannah Asuncion, Diana Spechler, Joshua Henkin, Claire Oria-Friedman, Charlotte Oria, Jill Jarvis, Galit Lotan, Ryan Britt, Birna Anna Bjornsdottir, Aryn Kyle, Kate Angus, Alison Espach, Maya Michaeli, Asaf Sandhaus, Annie Levy, Tali Herskowitz, Julie Stevenson, Syreeta McFadden, Greg Blumstein, Manya Fox, Honor Moore.

Thank you, Ariel Steinlauf, for years of love and friendship, and for the title of this book.

Special thanks to T Kira Madden, Karissa Chen, and Chesley Hicks, for their talents and generosity.

Elizabeth Cohen, a gifted tourguide: thank you always.

Thank you, Aspen Matis, for writing alongside me on some tough days, and for lending me your bionic ear whenever I asked. And to everyone in the Joe community past and present: you people remind me why and show me how.

In the last few years, I’ve gotten to walk to a gorgeous campus in the middle of Brooklyn and talk about fiction for a living. Thank you for that, Thad Ziolkowski and everyone at Pratt, and thank you for your spirit.

If heaven exists it is the MacDowell Colony, and in the past couple of years I’ve been lucky enough to die twice. I don’t know that I would ever have finished this collection without that good fortune.

I am similarly indebted to the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts, the Sozopol Fiction Seminars in Bulgaria, the Writer’s Room at the Betsy, and the Ucross Foundation.

This book is dedicated to Nehama Segalovitz. Writing is nothing more than a way to look for you.

Shelly Oria was born in Los Angeles and grew up in Israel. Her fiction has appeared in The Paris Review, McSweeney’s, TriQuarterly , and Quarterly West , among other places, and has won a number of awards, including the Indiana Review Fiction Prize. She curates the series Sweet! Actors Reading Writers in the East Village and teaches fiction at Pratt Institute, where she also codirects the Writers’ Forum.