Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

Hebrew feels weird, like some secret code; Ron and I got used to speaking English between us because of Zoë, and gradually Hebrew started to feel like an intimate space we shouldn’t be sharing. Occasionally a word would slip, but mostly we honor this unspoken agreement. I miss Hebrew sometimes; other times I try to imagine how the words might sound if I didn’t understand their meaning, and I wish that I could listen to them from the outside and choose whether or not to get back in.

Ron learned at an early age how you can hide behind a new language, how you can wear a new identity so tight on your skin that you forget it’s only a costume. This is what he taught me: (1) To conquer a language that’s not your native tongue, you need to prioritize reading over sleeping. (2) Fighting your accent is not a good idea. Let it slide off when it feels ready, and until then embrace it, tell yourself it’s cute. (3) When you’re in a relationship, and two people share an understanding that the third one doesn’t, language is a tricky business.

* * *

At the bar on Prince Street, I see Ron’s hesitation as clearly as I see his eyes. He’s too tired to fight it, he answers in Hebrew. Az ma, ani stam idyot? he asks. I touch the soft spot on the back of his hand, just below his wristwatch. You’re not an idiot, I say, Ata lo idyot ; you just need to believe in certain things to keep going, you know?

We drink quietly after that, my fingers still stroking his hand. I had a whole thing planned for tonight, he says suddenly, and we’re back to English; I wanted to go to the Ferris wheel on Coney Island. Can you do that at night? I ask, and Ron’s voice is shaky when he says, I don’t know, I haven’t checked. Or we could go hang out in Central Park, I say — it’s become a joke between the three of us because we’ve been meaning to do it for so long. Ron smiles, and I close my eyes and open my mouth to say, I think Zoë’s been stalking Keith Buckley, but the words sting the bottom of my throat and stay there. I’m not sure what scares me more — that I’ll say it and everything will change, that I’ll say it and nothing will. So I just keep stroking Ron’s hand, drawing small flowers and triangles with my finger.

* * *

When we walk home from the bar, the air is no longer crisp, and I try to think of the right word but I can’t find it. All the words are in Hebrew now, and none of them describe the air accurately. Ron hands a dollar bill to every person on the street who asks for money, and also to a few who don’t, because he believes in karma. I haven’t been to a peace rally in five months, he says, it’s the least I can do. I want to say that I don’t see the connection, but I know it will only upset him. How do you have so many singles? I ask. I broke a twenty when you went to the bathroom, Ron says, but his mind is somewhere else. I see a guy across the street from us, and for a second I think it’s Dreadlocks from the bookstore, but he disappears before I can be sure.

The apartment is all lit, and I realize Zoë and I forgot to turn off the lights, but Ron shouts, Zo? Zoë?—and then one more time, Zoë. Now he’s doubly pissed off — that Zoë’s not here, that he let himself hope she was. He says, Jesus fucking Christ, are you girls physically incapable of turning the light off? Is it really so hard to remember? Or is it that you just don’t give a flying fuck that we’re throwing our money at Con Edison like they are some fucking charity organization? I say, Don’t take it out on me, Ron, it’s not fair. He says, You left the house together, didn’t you? I say, I’m not talking about the lights. Ron takes a deep breath, and for a second he looks taller and more buff than he is. I’m sorry, he says.

I go to the kitchen and put water in the pot. Ron, do you want some tea? I shout, because I think he’s in the bedroom. I’m right here, you don’t need to shout, he says, standing by the island that separates the kitchen from the living room.

* * *

At two a.m., we are sleepy in front of the television, fighting our eyes, two parents whose daughter is out clubbing on a school night. I say what we’ve both been thinking for some time: Ron, she might not be coming home tonight. Do you think we should call her? he asks. Her cell phone is in the bedroom, I say. Zoë often forgets to take her cell phone; when she remembers, it’s because I put it in her bag myself. Ron snorts and says, Of course. Well, do you want to go to sleep, then? he asks me. I guess we should, I say, but we keep sitting there for a few more minutes while Will and Grace are going to see a therapist together. Then Ron asks, Did she take her keys? And I say, I’m pretty sure she did. A few minutes later, I’m brushing my teeth and Ron is turning off all the lights.

The apartment is too quiet, our huge king-sized bed feels empty, and this is the word I think about: Ra’av. It means hunger, which is not what I’m feeling, and yet for a while it’s the only word I have. Ra’av is not something that makes falling asleep easy. Ron hugs me and then grabs my ass, a butt cheek in each hand. He’s hard now, and his thumb finds its favorite spot and starts to rub it, my thong a small sailboat with the help of his hand. Tiny waves are sending the promise of pleasure in a code my body reads well, but it feels wrong without Zoë; we have “rules,” and according to them if one of us is absent or uninterested the other two can always go ahead, but what happens in love is that reality will begin to set its own rules.

I stop him, and his entire body stiffens instantly. Then he says, We’ll have to figure something out, you know, if she’s not coming back. His voice is cold, distant. Of course she’s coming back, I say, and then I add, At some point. I always knew this would happen, Ron says, and I feel like he’s talking to somebody else, somebody I can’t see. Always, he says again, even before we met you. In a way, that’s why, you know, he says, and now he looks me straight in the eyes, and it reminds me of the look he had that day on the floor, after our first time. That’s why what? I ask, though I know the answer. I thought maybe this way, with you, we could give this thing a fair shot, he says, and then adds, You know, “monogamy.” I’ve never seen him looking so lost. She was more into women back then, he says. I run my finger up and down the bridge of his nose. I want him to look at me but he won’t, and for a second I think maybe I should go sleep in the living room, though I know it’s a childish thought. If he cries, I think, then I’ll hug him, and maybe a different conversation will start. But Ron doesn’t cry. He is a lost man with no tears. I turn away.

I’m almost asleep when I hear Ron whispering something, and at first I think I’m already dreaming. What? I whisper back, and he sighs and waits, but then whispers again. I don’t know how to be that guy, he says, I don’t know how to be the guy who’s okay with this. I think: Maybe you’re not, and I’m afraid to say it, but eventually I do. Maybe you’re not. I want to be, Ron says, and he sounds like he needs to clear his throat; I want to be the guy who makes both of you happy. I want to be the guy who helps you open your own restaurant, and I want to be the guy who looks at Zoë and sees only what’s important, who doesn’t care about the rest.

Ron, I say, I don’t want to open my own restaurant.

* * *

This is my metaphor for how people in Israel treat suicide bombings and bombings in general: the flu. Some bombings are like a mild flu that doesn’t even make you skip work. These are the bombings in a city other than your own, not too many casualties, nobody you know. Others are worse, the kind of flu that makes you vow you will from now on be grateful for your health every hour of every day. When the location is a café you used to frequent, or when some girl who went to school with you and moved up north in third grade loses an arm, it feels real . For a short while, death feels close.