The music blaring from the speakers in the villa could be heard from the beach which was a ways away. Distant voices, laughter, and the repeated bump of the techno music to which the crowd bounces into conformity, gently washed in and out with the waves, and I much prefer this scene. The sand is empty, and I carry my black leather jacket over my shoulder and shuffle along the water line; the sounds become more distant with each wave, and soon it's quiet. A little buzzed, I plopped by ass in the sand near the water and stare off for a few seconds, until the vibration of my cellphone in my back pocket snatches my attention. I lean over, dust the sand off of the phone, and unenthusiastically check to see who wants what.
1 new message from Ilana: "Where are you?"
I look at the screen for a moment, and decide how to respond.
"Took a walk. Let me know if you guys leave." Send. I don't want to get stranded without a ride home.
Whether out of concern for my social well being, or just... because, four of my friends convinced me to accompany them to this villa party. All four of them are respectively dating each other, and buses with five wheels have been deemed ineffective by various intellectuals, and as a result, I find myself on the beach tonight. Sure, I could have stood off to the side with my drink, bobbing my head repeatedly, waiting for some indication of interest from potential female counterparts, whilst occasionally glancing over at my affectionate lovestruck friends, all of whom will surely be getting laid tonight. I'm happier here, thanks.
I taste the salt from the air on my lips, reach into my pocket and pull out a cigarette. I try my best to hide the flame from the wind with my hand, and strike the lighter a few times before it lights. The tip of the cigarette catches, and begins to burn red. I ash into the sand. After a few drags, I flick the butt into the water, stand up, and brush the sand off of my jeans.
Along the shoreline, I slowly make my way back toward the bobbing heads of conformity, and think about the mid term I have next week.
I check my cellphone for the time. 12:45am; still early for a Thursday night in Israel. I scroll through the names in my phone book for a moment, and look for some name that catches my interest. I stop at Simona, the girl from the coffee shop just two days before, and decide that it might be too late to call, plus I'm buzzed and my judgment is skewed. I decide to use the better of my skewed judgment, and wait with the bobbing heads.
Ironically and tragically loveless, Simona sits up in her bed for a moment in her Herzliya loft, at that same moment and just before going to sleep, she checks her cell phone one last time, before turning out the lights.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Substituted Guidance With Pretty Things...
Simona opens her eyes mid afternoon and with her face in her pillow she kicks the covers off and slowly turns over. The air in the room is hot, the window is open, the fan is on and it doesn't seem to be helping much. She sighs, and stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. The dream from which she had just awoken fogs her brain a bit, and pieces begin to fade while others become clear, and in the end the dream had lost its story, and its meaning.
The clock flashes 12:00 because the windstorm last night must have knocked out the power for some unpronounced amount of time. She reaches over to her nightstand and looks at her cellphone to check the time. 1:24pm. Whatever. No missed calls.
She sits up in her bed and her feet touch the Persian silk rug covering the Italian travertine tile in her central Herzliya loft apartment. Mommy and Daddy might not get along but they take care of their little girl, and nothing but a high rise loft will do for their dear Simona. In reality, she knows that her parents substitute their guidance with pretty things, and do so to make time for their legal careers. What had started in Law School ironically ended in a courtroom and, to Simona, it all happened for the best in the worst way possible.
She scratches her head and loafs through the hall, past the living room, and into the kitchen where she switches on her stainless steel Bosch coffee machine, sits at her chic little corner kitchen table and turns on the television. She stares at it blankly for a few seconds and the SMS alert goes off on her phone, which is still in the bedroom, and that means she has to get up.
"Fuck you, not yet."
She notices that the light on the coffee machine has turned green, and green means go, so she gets up, grabs a green mug from the cupboard, and pours herself a cup of black coffee. The sugar is running low, but there's enough for another cup or two. She scoops it from the container, and stirs while staring blankly for a moment, adds a drop of milk, taps the spoon on the edge of the cup, and takes her first sip; one of Simona's daily routines, of which she pays little attention to or attributes much significance.
Bill O'Riley is droning on in the background about the immoral and inevitable fall of society, whilst vehemently arguing with an Asian man whom is clearly struggling with his language, let alone his nervousness about being on international television. She watches this exchange for a moment, and decides that the SMS is more interesting. She leaves the cup on the counter and walks back through the hall and into her room where she searches the bed sheets for her phone.
1 new message: Dinner tonight?
This guy doesn't seem to be getting the hint. It's been three weeks and she hadn't once written back as of yet, he hasn't had the balls to call, and she has no intention of answering even if he does grow a pair. Israelis are notorious for giving out friends numbers to other friends and acquaintances in hopes of creating a new everlasting love. Much of the time one ends up with a pain in the ass for a few weeks or an awkward encounter down the line somewhere. It's flattering, but get the hint.
Simona grabs her hemp shoulder bag and drags it carelessly behind her back into the kitchen where she sits back down at her chic little table, unzips her bag, and pulls out Huntington's Clash of Civilizations, turns off the TV, and thinks quickly for a moment about the encounter she had just the day before. She checks her phone one more time, sets it back on the table, opens the book to the last chapter, begins highlighting, and finishes the reading she had begun nearly two weeks ago.
The clock flashes 12:00 because the windstorm last night must have knocked out the power for some unpronounced amount of time. She reaches over to her nightstand and looks at her cellphone to check the time. 1:24pm. Whatever. No missed calls.
She sits up in her bed and her feet touch the Persian silk rug covering the Italian travertine tile in her central Herzliya loft apartment. Mommy and Daddy might not get along but they take care of their little girl, and nothing but a high rise loft will do for their dear Simona. In reality, she knows that her parents substitute their guidance with pretty things, and do so to make time for their legal careers. What had started in Law School ironically ended in a courtroom and, to Simona, it all happened for the best in the worst way possible.
She scratches her head and loafs through the hall, past the living room, and into the kitchen where she switches on her stainless steel Bosch coffee machine, sits at her chic little corner kitchen table and turns on the television. She stares at it blankly for a few seconds and the SMS alert goes off on her phone, which is still in the bedroom, and that means she has to get up.
"Fuck you, not yet."
She notices that the light on the coffee machine has turned green, and green means go, so she gets up, grabs a green mug from the cupboard, and pours herself a cup of black coffee. The sugar is running low, but there's enough for another cup or two. She scoops it from the container, and stirs while staring blankly for a moment, adds a drop of milk, taps the spoon on the edge of the cup, and takes her first sip; one of Simona's daily routines, of which she pays little attention to or attributes much significance.
Bill O'Riley is droning on in the background about the immoral and inevitable fall of society, whilst vehemently arguing with an Asian man whom is clearly struggling with his language, let alone his nervousness about being on international television. She watches this exchange for a moment, and decides that the SMS is more interesting. She leaves the cup on the counter and walks back through the hall and into her room where she searches the bed sheets for her phone.
1 new message: Dinner tonight?
This guy doesn't seem to be getting the hint. It's been three weeks and she hadn't once written back as of yet, he hasn't had the balls to call, and she has no intention of answering even if he does grow a pair. Israelis are notorious for giving out friends numbers to other friends and acquaintances in hopes of creating a new everlasting love. Much of the time one ends up with a pain in the ass for a few weeks or an awkward encounter down the line somewhere. It's flattering, but get the hint.
Simona grabs her hemp shoulder bag and drags it carelessly behind her back into the kitchen where she sits back down at her chic little table, unzips her bag, and pulls out Huntington's Clash of Civilizations, turns off the TV, and thinks quickly for a moment about the encounter she had just the day before. She checks her phone one more time, sets it back on the table, opens the book to the last chapter, begins highlighting, and finishes the reading she had begun nearly two weeks ago.
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