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.