Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

Still, this is what you do: you call a friend who used to go to that café, a friend who knows that girl. You spend a few minutes talking about how horrible it is, how your idea of normal life is actually insane. You sigh, and your friend sighs as well, but at the end of that sigh there’s already a new thought. Then you say the word “so” like that: So … And you ask your friend about the guy she was supposed to go out with last night. Your friend jumps at the opportunity like you knew she would; the guy she went out with last night was a weirdo who wouldn’t stop talking about owls, but she fucked him anyway. Then, for thirty, thirty-five minutes, this is what you do: analyze. You analyze your friend’s taste for men with odd obsessions, or you analyze your own need to occasionally stare at the sun until you cry, or you analyze a mutual friend’s secret affair with a married man who once was your teacher.

You analyze, and slowly you notice how words like “tragedy” and “death” hold nothing more than their own sound. Tragedy, in that sense, becomes something like “chocolate” or “bicycle.”

* * *

When I wake up, Ron and I are on different sides of the bed, facing up, and Zoë is lying on top of us, facedown and arms stretched to her sides, like some kind of collapsed Jesus. I stay still and breathe deeply. I feel happy, though I want to feel other things. This is what I’m thinking: Central Park.

I gently raise Zoë’s arm and fold myself out of bed underneath it, then gently put her arm back on the mattress. I’m thinking: breakfast in bed. I’m thinking: something fancy. Ron and Zoë are always trying to get me to cook for them, and I always refuse, because who wants to bring their work home? But now I feel not only the wish but the need to cook; I want to chop, stir-fry, bake. I’m walking quietly out of the room, so as not to wake them, and I’m trying to remember what vegetables we have, whether or not we’re out of eggs. I’m almost touching the bedroom door when something registers with me, something I must have seen right when I opened my eyes, but chose not to. I turn around, though I already know the answer: Ron, on top of the sheet that’s supposed to be covering him, is wearing his blue Superman underwear. Last night, when I fell asleep, he was in his gray plaid boxers.

In an instant, I feel sick. The thought of the two of them having sex without me — no, next to me — and choosing not to wake me up, makes me feel as if I already made breakfast for three people and then ate it by myself. I run to the bathroom; I want to throw up all the pastries, the omelet, the coffee I never had. I make gagging sounds, and I no longer care about waking them up; I sound like an animal. But nothing comes out, and as far as I can tell, Ron and Zoë are still sound asleep.

Then there are two Me s.

Me No. 1 is the Israeli who was taught that being tough and being strong are the same thing. She was a soldier once, for two long years, so she believes she can survive anything. She says: You’re chasing after something that doesn’t exist. She says: You’ll be just fine on your own. This is what she believes I should do: pack my stuff. She’s thinking about the blue suitcase, about taking it out of the bedroom closet without knocking down Ron’s old speakers. She’s thinking about how much she could fit in the suitcase, how many back-and-forths it would take. She’s thinking about where she could go.

Me No. 2 is a woman who successfully impersonates an American. She is soft-spoken, and once a week she gets lost in the city on purpose, then walks — no maps, no questions — until she finds her way home. She has a lot to prove. She says: This isn’t the end.

* * *

Sometimes, when the three of us are together, my body feels like marshmallow, calm and weightless. That Saturday three weeks ago is a good example, and I see it now: we are rolling off our cushions in laughter, holding our stomachs like footballs. I think, Who is this person? That me who isn’t Israeli and isn’t American, isn’t gay and isn’t straight — who is she?

For a while I just listen to the Sunday-morning quiet, interrupted every few seconds by Ron’s snoring. But all of a sudden I think: What if this isn’t the first time? I feel Ron hugging me from behind in the bathroom one morning, and I hear his voice: You’re totally dead to the world when you’re asleep, you know that? I start gagging again, and I can’t stop.

Zoë’s voice comes to me through the gagging sound, through the bathroom door: You okay, babe? Can I come in? I throw up now, finally, but I’m vomiting water and air, and I feel like I’m suffocating. I hold the door with my left hand to keep Zoë from coming in, because our bathroom doesn’t have a lock. As a result, I have to let go of my hair, and when I throw up again it gets splashed.

When I get up to brush my teeth, Zoë opens the door. I’m fine, I say before she has a chance to ask. Are you sick or something? she asks. I’m fine, I say again, tasting toothpaste. I’m sorry about yesterday, she says, it wasn’t cool of me to leave you and go with that guy. She clings to my back now, hugs my shoulders, and looks at both of us in the bathroom mirror. Besides, he kind of smelled like burnt rubber, she says in an attempt to make me smile. I don’t. You know it’s not you, Pie, she whispers in my ear, and then kisses it; it’s just my fucking daddy issues, it has nothing to do with you. But I’ll work on it, she adds when I don’t respond, I will. I try to ignore her and focus on brushing my teeth; she reaches for my toothbrush with her right hand, and I stop brushing and look in the mirror. We look stupid; I have white toothpaste foam coming out of my mouth, and Zoë’s eyes are still sticky with sleep. I look sad; she looks relaxed. She kisses my cheek, her eyes still on the mirror. Ron and I had a really good talk when I got home, she says softly; everything will be okay, you’ll see. Her voice is all promise, and I feel a sharp pain at the bottom of my stomach, my need to believe her.

* * *

I spit and say slowly, What about Keith Buckley? Zoë’s eyes go from the mirror to the sink. She says, I don’t want to talk about it; and then, It’s not important. I say, Maybe it is. Zoë lets her head fall gently to one side, and her fingers circle the zipper of her sweatshirt. When they settle on it, they pull it down a bit, then up, again and again. She says, I just … I got it in my head that if Keith doesn’t notice me, then it’s a sign that I’ll never succeed in anything, you know? She looks at me now. But I’m done, Pie, I swear, she says and shakes her head. Done. I put my hand over hers, quieting her zipper. Zo, it’s impossible not to notice you, I say. Zoë gives a short laugh, and we stand there like that for a few seconds. Then she says, Remember that guy with the dreadlocks from the bookstore? The weirdest thing happened. I saw him again when I was on my way back, and he just walked up to me, in the middle of the street at like four a.m., and said, Go home. Maybe it wasn’t him, I say, maybe it was some crazy guy. It was him, Zoë says, I recognized him, and I’m sure he recognized me, too. What did you do? I ask her. I don’t know, she says, it was this moment from a dream; I think I said, That’s what I’m doing, I’m going home.

Almost out the door, she turns around and says, But listen, Pie, the Keith stuff, that’s just between us, okay? I wait, then ask, Why? She’s already on her way to the kitchen, her arm stretching in front of her to open the freezer door. She giggles and says, You’re the best, Pie, because she thinks my question is a clever way of saying “of course.” This is what I think: Nothing’s changed.

I am alone in the bathroom now. I look at myself in the mirror, foam-free. I hear Zoë in the kitchen fixing us all a Saturday-morning breakfast. I’m no longer nauseated, and the idea of breakfast is tempting. The only thing Zoë knows how to make is French toast, but it’s the best I’ve ever tasted. I think: This is what there is, this is my life. I think: Do I want it or not?