על חשבון הבית

Chapter 1

When I opened my eyes, the room was dark. I squinted at my phone and saw that it was five to eleven. I breathed a sigh of relief. It could easily have been a quarter to two or some other diabolical hour. When you’re a teenager, those hours lift your spirits. The later you get up, the more rebellious you feel, and the less of a prisoner to the system you are. But when your next birthday is the twenty-ninth, every late wake-up darkens your soul and is accompanied by an immediate sense of worthlessness.

Once again, I’d stayed over at Daniela’s. This was already the fourth time it had happened. I lay there with my eyes closed, but my thoughts were racing. What am I doing with my life? What am I doing to make the life I want? Does it bother her that I wake up so late?

I put my phone back down, rolled over to the other side, and saw Daniela’s pillows in disarray. She’s probably waiting for a “good morning” message from me. The longer time passes without her receiving it, the more I shrink in her eyes. She’s thirty-three, she has a thriving, successful business, she’s full of energy, she’s resourceful, and she even has a schedule and a list of goals on the mirror in her office. She updates it at the end of every month. She’s probably in the studio right now, dressing some bride-to-be, and remembering that she has a twenty-eight-year-old baby in bed.

Maybe the idea excited her, made her feel like she’s still got it, that the world is in the palm of her hand. And yet, no woman wants to see her man waking up late and aimlessly. It’s disheartening; it leads to doubts, to questions like what he’s doing with his life, what he’s doing to achieve the life he wants, and how I feel about him waking up so late. I grabbed my phone and sent her a heart emoji to stop myself from spiraling.

I got out of bed. I felt guilty about everything I’d done. While I brushed my teeth and waited for the coffee maker to turn on, I thought about how one of the most beautiful and most frustrating things about a relationship is this dynamic—the fact that two people go to sleep and wake up together, yet set out from the same place toward different destinations. It can be the most beautiful thing, because each person has their own world and their own life, and the connection between those worlds is what creates the interest, the spark, the love. But it can also be the most frustrating thing, because each person has their own world and their own life, and the disconnect between those worlds is what creates the criticism, the resentment, the blame.

Wait, did I say “relationship”?

Yes. I said “relationship.”

Chapter 2

I met Daniela in real life. I mean, not on Instagram or some other app like I was used to meeting all the girls I dated. I had no problem with that, by the way—quite the opposite.

Everyone always jokes bitterly about what they’ll tell their grandchildren—Grandpa sat dejected in his shabby apartment in North Jaffa and Grandma sat bored in a sustainability class at college; Grandpa swiped right on Grandma, Grandma did the same, and that’s how they started talking. It’s a cliché.

In any case, as I said, it really didn’t bother me. I’d sit dejected in my apartment in North Jaffa, swiping right and left, up and down, back and forth. It was a game to me—and an interesting one at that. Every single time, I was amazed at how, from a single glance lasting no more than three seconds, I could figure out who the girl was, her relationship status, what she was studying, and what she was looking for on that app.

I developed an algorithm in my brain—one that kept getting better with every swipe. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing or why, but it worked. And when I say “worked,” I mean that no one got hurt when I walked away, and I didn’t feel as alone as I really was.

A few days before I met Daniela, I had a match with a girl named Yuli. A twenty-four-year-old, short and skinny with nice breasts and round, sitting perfectly in a white tank top without a bra. She’s originally from the south, and now lives with her poodle in Old Jaffa—the hardcore kind—in a small, sweet gallery apartment. She has one of those old-school cameras, a bob haircut, and she’s crazy about Sigour Ross and Shoshana Damari. She sculpts in clay and has tons of ashtrays she made with a little face on the bottom—her own creation. For now, she works at a store that sells suits for businesswomen. The suits are from Italy, and her boss told her she’ll probably join her on the next trip to help pick out the new collection and get a closer look at the business. She told me this and winked.

To be honest, I had a great time with her. The sex was exciting, I was really into her, and she was genuinely funny. But I think what I loved most about her was the ease with which she carried herself. She was so unjudgmental of herself. She wasn’t just pretending to be laid-back and easygoing because we’d only just met—she genuinely was laid-back and easygoing because we’d only just met. Because everything’s fine. Because what’s the rush? What, does she know what she wants from me? How would she even know?

People have this weird tendency to want to know what they want. The only thing I knew was that this whole thing with her would end. I didn’t know exactly when or why, but I knew.

I knew that my romance with Yuli was like riding my motorcycle in the cold of winter, tailgating a bus the whole way, enjoying the heat from its engine blowing toward me. I know we’re not headed to the same place, and yet, until one of us disappears, I enjoy the warmth.

But why aren’t we heading in the same direction? Where am I going? Where am I headed? Because on the surface, everything was there—the age, the beauty, the chemistry. But something inside me knew. Something in my gut knew long before my head did, just like it had with every other girl I’d dated. When it was over and one of my friends would ask why and what her story was, I’d shrug and say I had no idea, but the question is what my story is, not what hers is.

and I couldn’t figure out what my deal was.

I parked my motorcycle outside Yuli’s apartment and texted her that I was outside. “Come on in,” she wrote.

It was our fifth date, and they’d all taken place at her apartment. She was sitting on the couch, which was too close to the TV, smoking with one hand and petting the poodle with the other. I never managed to figure out how anyone could bond with that yellowish creature, or how every third girl in town has the same poodle with the same name. But I’m not one to judge.

Incense was burning on the table, and the TV was showing one of those intimate live performances by Clyro. Biffy. I closed the door behind me and sat down next to her. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a blue T-shirt that was a size too small for her. Her nipples were visible through it. How sexy it is not to try to be sexy.

I don’t know, maybe I’m too sensitive to inauthenticity, but to me there’s something much sexier about a woman who looks natural—like you could see her hanging out with friends or in her Stories and just imagine how you’re going to grab those thighs, rip that tracksuit off her, and know you’re going to do it.

As soon as I sat down, she put out her cigarette, placed her hand on my chest, and let it slide down. She was a little high on weed and was nodding her head from side to side to the music. Then, slowly, she closed her eyes, pulled her hand out of my pants, and instead rested her head on my shoulder. It was really sweet to see that. To see how she was changing and following her desires with such serenity.

I felt like it was the complete opposite of me. I thought to myself that maybe I’m the one guiding my desires, rather than them guiding me. That I’m the one pushing the buttons, opening and closing the doors.

It could have been so much fun to fall in love with her. Here she is—she’s gorgeous she’s cute and I have fun with her, but still, my gut tells me there’s no chance.

After a few minutes, she fell asleep. I reached for the cigarette pack on the table and took one out.

The warnings on cigarette packs always turn me into a two-bit philosopher—“Cigarettes cause disease and premature death.” And I ask myself, what is “time”? What time? Who decided what “time” is? When does anyone die at their “time”? Car accidents, heart attacks, cancer. What, what is the “original” time? Since when do the Kamels believe in God? In fate? And hell, should we live every day as if it were our last or our first? And why am I digging myself into this hole? Why am I fixating on every thought? Why won’t my mind give me a second’s peace? Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, so I won’t hear my heart?

Suddenly, Yuli began doing those gentle yoga-like stretching movements, from side to side. As she moved, she stood up and took my hand. I got up after her. She locked the door, turned off the bathroom light, the AC, and the incense, and petted the poodle before we went up to the bedroom. I realized I’d witnessed her usual nightly ritual, which left me feeling a little sour because I knew it would be over soon. And there she was, opening up and feeling comfortable enough to fall asleep on my shoulder ten minutes after I arrived and to get into bed, as if it were a given that I’d be sleeping over tonight and would be here tomorrow.

Before we fell asleep, she managed to tell me that she’d love it if I came with her in the morning to see a woman who sells super-cute secondhand wedding dresses—and that there are also some everyday pieces there—and that her new studio is right next to my house.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to your place,” she added.

I tried to figure out exactly where this new place had opened near my house, and it made sense that I had no idea, given that lately I’ve been moving in a triangle between home, work, and the convenience store.

When we got there that morning, I was surprised at how close the place was to my house.

A meter past the newsstand. It was a renovated, well-lit street-level store that spanned the space of two storefronts. In one section, I saw a photo shoot set-up with a model and a photographer, along with all their gear—like an umbrella, white backdrop, and lighting fixtures. Standing there with them was a woman arranging dresses on hangers and matching shoes and necklaces to each dress, and another woman who stood with her arms folded, watching everything from the side with a serious, tense expression. Next to her sat a huge dog—a German Shepherd, perhaps—like a soldier. They all looked pretty young.

In the second room, the one we’d entered through, was the store. A huge display window, mannequins wearing dresses and wigs, enormous potted plants, and a wooden table in the center of the room covered with jewelry. Yuli immediately started feeling the fabrics and stroking the shirts. When she noticed I was standing at the entrance like an idiot, she sent me outside to smoke a cigarette. The air was still pretty cool for early summer. I leaned against the door of one of the cars and lit a cigarette. The other door opened, and a huge dog came out, tied to a red leash. The girl with the serious look followed her out, holding an unlit cigarette in her mouth. She approached me and asked for a light.

“Are you brothers?” she asked.

“Brothers?” I repeated. Who’s brothers?

“I mean, you don’t look alike at all, but couples never come here. Usually the bride comes with her best friend or her mom—or both. If there’s a guy, he’s usually a brother or the best friend, and you don’t look like the best friend to me.”

“No, no, we’re not siblings,” I said, trying to avoid saying we were dating so she wouldn’t think that, but also hoping to make her wonder what we were. She handed me back the lighter, and I slipped it into my pocket.

“So are you two dating?” She wouldn’t let it go. The dog sat quietly by her side the whole time.

“We’re dating,” I said, “yes.”

I felt that the more I kept dodging an answer, the more she’d chase after it, and she’ll see me as a guy who isn’t serious.

And I always care about how people see me.

I saw her gaze leave me and shift to Yuli. I saw that she was judging every aspect of her—how she dresses, how she moves through the space, how she’s trying to control me by bringing me here with her and taking me out for a cigarette.

“So you’re the owner of this place?”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“I didn’t see you tell anyone you were going out for a cigarette, and everyone else is working except you.”

“Yes,” she replied, sliding her sunglasses down from her head to her eyes, “They call me ‘the shoemaker.’ That single woman who sells wedding dresses.”

“That actually works for me. You never stop dreaming, and that’s what brings out the best in you. But you’re definitely married to your work.”

“To succeed, you have to be. Come on, I’m taking Luna for a walk. Good luck to you all,” she said with a smile and placed her hand on my shoulder for three seconds.

I thought to myself that it was one of the most elegant gestures I’d ever seen.

I watched them walk away. She had a long figure, and her shoulder blades stood out femininely through her shirt. In fact, all her movements—her whole being—were those of a woman. I took another drag on my cigarette. There’s nothing sweeter in the world than a successful flirtation, a conversation that flowed, something that worked and ended just a moment before the magic wore off. I thought I saw a certain glow in her eyes. I think she liked that I’d noticed her.

I tossed the cigarette and went inside. I just wanted to get out of there. Yuli was inside, and as she looked at the dresses, she was talking rapidly on the phone—probably with her boss. I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder for three seconds. She turned toward me and gave me a half-hug. But it wasn’t a goodbye hug—it was a “stay” hug. A “let’s just stand here holding each other” hug. I pulled away from her slightly and nodded to signal that I was leaving. She leaned in to kiss me on the mouth. I prayed that no one there would See what I mean.

I gave her a dry kiss on the lips and urged her to go. When I opened the door, I saw a large, stylish sticker with the store’s name, “Daniela.”

On the way home, I was angry at myself for kissing her on the mouth. Why am I kissing a girl I’ve met five times like that in public? And why is she giving me a goodbye hug in the middle of a bridal shop? And why is she sending me out to smoke a cigarette while she’s stroking fabrics? And why is she telling me to come with her at all? What are we, a couple?

I felt that if I didn’t break up with her today, we’d stay together forever.

But maybe it’s my fault? Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t know how to set boundaries from the start? Maybe I’m giving off some kind of warm, domestic, couple-like vibe? Even when we weren’t meeting up, we texted on WhatsApp all day, talked all day, made plans all day.

Me, I’m to blame. I don’t know how to keep it simple. I panic at the thought of being found out. That someone will realize this is all a big charade, and that my name is Omri. So smart, my ass. So cool, my ass. What a screw-up who’s never been in a relationship. Of course I’ve never been in a relationship! Woe betide me if I let someone really get to know me, if someone finds out how little goes on in my head. How boring I am. How lazy I am. How many cigarettes I smoke. How insecure I am.

Going out with girls, sitting with them at the bar and talking about life, ordering a bottle of white wine and the best dishes on the menu, and then, over a cigarette before dessert, kissing them—that’s something I know, really well, actually. I also know how to explain to them why I think it’s wrong for us to stay in touch, and yet still hit on them. And even the reason that every time I reject someone, it’s because deep down I don’t want to end up in that awful situation where she rejects me—I know that, too. And how does that help me? Maybe that’s the reason? Maybe because I want so badly to prove to myself that I’m not a loser and can be in a relationship, I act like a partner from the very first moment.

Only when a girl responds to me and goes out with me do I manage to stop and think about whether I even want this at all—and then it’s clear I don’t, because I’

I’m looking at a girl who’s already decided she wants a relationship.

That’s the thing I hate most in the world, because if she’s already decided, then it’s just by chance that it’s me—it could just as easily be someone else. And it’s swipe right, swipe left—it’s lame and not magical in the slightest.

I took out my earbuds, looked inside, and saw their inner cavities filled with clumpy, yellowish-honey-colored earwax. Is there a girl in the world who needs to see this!? I have to dig around in someone’s AirPods. God, how can anyone live like this? How can you move forward like this, grow? Meet someone? There’s no way I’m the only one who feels this way. There’s no way everyone in the world is at peace with themselves. There’s no way no one else has wax in their earbuds!

Suddenly I realized that when you’re single, you’re always in a crisis. You’re in a crisis because you’re with all the women in the world, and in a crisis because you can’t get the one you want, and in a crisis because you might end up with the one woman in the world who, of all people, you don’t want. You’re in a crisis because nothing ever starts, and in a crisis because everything ends. You’re in a crisis because you go out every night, and you’re in a crisis because you’re in bed all day. You’re in a crisis if you hit on every girl, and you’re in a crisis if you don’t hit on any. You’re in a crisis because everyone around you is in a relationship, and you’re in a crisis because none of them love the way you think you can. You’re in a crisis because others have someone to argue with, someone to worry about, someone to think about—and you’re in a crisis because you don’t feel like arguing, you don’t feel like worrying, and you don’t feel like thinking. You’re in a crisis ten minutes before a date when you’re sure that if you weren’t in a crisis, she could be your wife, and you’re in a crisis ten minutes after the date starts when you realize she won’t be your wife either. You’re in a crisis when you’re masturbating and in a crisis when you’re not horny. You’re in a crisis when you go to sleep and in a crisis when you wake up. You’re in a crisis when you think about your ex and in a crisis because you’re thinking about your ex. In short, when you’re single, you’re always in a crisis—especially because you know you’ll get through this one, too.

I nervously opened my phone and deleted all those apps. Enough already. When it happens, it happens. I lit a cigarette. I turned right onto my street, and just as I stopped in front of the door to take out my key, I saw Daniela bending down to pick up Luna’s poop next to the neighbor’s door.

“Marking her territory?” I asked.

She looked up at me and chuckled, “Do you live here?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then, maybe I’ve finally found someone to walk Luna and let me work,” she said, stepping closer to me. “And I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves, Daniela.”

“Omri, and just so you know, I have no experience dating bitches.”

“Okay,” she said, “we’ll teach you.”

Chapter 3

I walked into the apartment and locked the door. I lay down on the couch, put my phone on silent, turned it face down, turned on the TV, and wondered if it was possible to love someone the way I love being alone. And if I love being alone so much, why do I want to love someone? And if I want to love someone, maybe I don’t love being alone as much as I think I do.

My phone vibrated on the table. I flipped it over. It was Yuli. I was afraid that if I didn’t answer, she’d come over, so I thought about pretending to be asleep and tossing the phone onto the other couch so I’d have an alibi. Then I remembered she doesn’t know where I live. By the time I figured out what to do, she’d already hung up.

Guilt washed over me. I’d gone to see her out of the blue, without any warning, with just a dry kiss on the lips, and now I wasn’t answering her. She has no idea how I feel—or rather, how I don’t feel—and as much as I’d like to be, I’m not the type to ghost someone. It’s not classy. I called her back. She answered right away.

“Hello, where are you? Where did you run off to?”

“I went home. You’re in the middle of your workday, and I felt like I was distracting you.”

What an idiot. Why am I sucking up?

“You really are distracting me,” she said, then paused for a moment.

“Okay, do you want me to swing by for coffee before I go about my day?”

“But I didn’t have time to tidy up the house,” I said, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

The first time we went out, we sat drinking margaritas at a bar near . When we left and I walked her home, we laughed about that whole thing where you’re on a date with someone and subtly hint that you want to go up to her place, and then she says her room is a mess.

“Now, I have a question, Yuli—what’s up with your mom? Do you really think I care what your room looks like? Do you really think that if I see a pile of clothes on the chair, I’ll lose my desire? Am I going to lean in to kiss you, and then catch a glimpse of a pair of socks on the floor out of the corner of my eye and stop everything? Will I feel like you’re looking down on me? Do you think I even notice anything? And anyway, what’s so scary about it? That I’ll see your underwear on the floor? I thought that was the whole point! So okay, it’s an excuse, obviously. But how does such a stupid excuse make sense when it’s worked on so many women over so many years?”

She laughed hysterically and said it was a dirty trick to drop a hint like that right before we got to that point.

Now she wasn’t laughing.

“Just kidding. Seriously, come on. Turn right after the store—the blue door—I left it open.”

Four minutes later, she arrived.

“So, what do you think of the store?”

“Nice store, too bad the girls there are such bitches. That’s become the new trend in Tel Aviv now. Good service means being a bitch. Like they know their worth and they’re in demand now, and if you want something, you have to approach them. I can’t stand it. That whole Port Said vibe. Where’s the respect? Someone comes into your store, is interested in your product—show her some respect! Give her some service! Ugh.”

She sat down on the couch far from me, tossed her bag onto the coffee table, leaned back, and then leaned forward again to reach for her cigarettes.

“You’ve got a nice place,” she said as she scanned the room, “Maybe you could make us some coffee?”

I went to the kitchen and took out two glasses and the capsules—the last ones in the package. How am I going to wrap this up? What am I going to tell her? Maybe I’ll try throwing a dramatic “You hear me?” into the air, then stammer a little and let her figure it out on her own?

“By the way, that girl, the store manager, asked me if we’re a couple. I think she has a crush on you.”

I handed her the coffee and sat back down, far away from her.

“And what did you tell her?” I lit a cigarette.

“That I have no idea, that we’re just getting started and having fun for now.”

“Come on, queen! That’s a great answer!”

She chuckled, “What did you want me to say?”

I hesitated a bit, fiddling with my beard. The moment had come; I was in a tight spot.

“Hmm, I don’t know. I think so, too.”

Idiot.

“Men. How you guys freak out over the silliest things.”

“Yeah...” I said.

“Okay, why are you so stressed out? Just say it. This isn’t a ‘where are we’ conversation. Chill,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

“No, I’m not stressed. It’s nothing. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Okay, the mood just got a little heavy—that’s the problem with talking. Even when you’re talking about not talking about something, you’re still talking about it. Anyway, I have to dash to the office; my boss needs me to sit down with her about something,” she said, getting up, picking up her bag from the floor, and coming closer to me.

Maybe out of awkwardness, maybe because I couldn’t bear to let her walk away with a heavy heart, or maybe out of fear that I’d regret this by tonight, I gave her a kiss. What am I saying—I devoured her. I knocked her bag out of her hand and pushed her onto the couch. I kissed her neck and then went down to her breasts and then to her stomach.

I lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties.

“But this time you’ll come quickly,” she whispered to me.

I entered her and came in less than a minute. It’s funny that when it comes with legitimacy, it isn’t accompanied by a feeling of insignificance. She kissed me long and hard, got dressed, and on her way out said we’d talk in the evening. I was so—relieved—that she left. Sometimes I think to myself that the moment you sleep with someone, the world changes.

If it doesn’t change, you fall in love with her.

I don’t know why, but it’s only after I come that I can really see the girl in front of me. Until then—until we’re in bed—she doesn’t interest me at all. All I care about is whether she wants me enough to sleep with me. It’s as if I’m only focused on myself, bottling up everything I think about her, and only after I’ve gotten what I wanted does it all come pouring out, and I’m able to look at things rationally. And that’s pathetic. And it’s terrible. And there’s no way it can stay like this forever. I turned on the water heater. I lit a cigarette and thought that maybe, after all, I don’t have any real reason to end it, aside from the big reason that says if you know it’s not right, then why waste your time. But in reality, there are no big reasons—just honesty and convenience.

I took a shower, and when I got out, I felt like having another small cup of coffee. I went to the kitchen, saw the empty package, and got annoyed at Yuli. Nonsense. I threw on some clothes and headed out toward the grocery store. Just before I went in, I saw Daniela’s store door open and her dog come out, followed immediately by her. Where does she go with that dog every second? What’s with that dog? I panicked and hurried inside. She didn’t see me.

I could feel my heart pounding. I grabbed the capsules from the shelf, walked to the register, paid, and left. I didn’t look to the sides, just straight ahead. I didn’t want to run into her—I don’t know why. I crossed the street and turned right.

Out on the street, I headed home again, back to my quiet, back to my solitude.

When I went to open the door, I saw a white sheet of paper peeking out from under the doormat.

I picked it up. There’s no way that girl is that into me, right? Or maybe she’s just so bold and reckless that she’d leave a note for a guy she knows is in a relationship. That’s downright cheeky. A total lack of tact. But it was a receipt from Walt Abu Hassan. She probably just sent it with a delivery guy.

I went inside and closed the door. I’m such an idiot sometimes. What kind of movie am I living in? I need to get my act together. I need to be alone. I need to go back to Hod HaSharon. Yeah, I need to leave Tel Aviv, this stinking place with all the poodles and wedding dresses and hummus deliveries.

I sent Yuli a message saying I’m really sorry but I have to be honest with her. I wanted to tell her that she’s magical and that I had so much fun with her, and how funny it is that whenever you want to leave someone, you build her up so much beforehand and shower her with compliments—which makes you wonder how it makes sense that you’re so into her and yet you’re leaving anyway. But instead, I wrote that she really is magical and that she’s amazing, and that I’m sorry, but I don’t think this should continue—that we’re not heading in the same direction.

She replied that she had no idea where she was headed, and then a second later she wrote: “But it’s okay, I had fun too. Talk to you later.”