The Bobbing Heads of Conformity

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.