I rang him from a pay phone in the arrivals hall. I hadn’t told him I was coming. I saw him weaving through the crowds of families reunited, suitcases, children, the sunshine of Israel glinting through the glass walls. He wore a yellow t-shirt. Sensible trousers. His tendrils of black hair were gone. For the first time I noticed his eyes were a little too close together. He took me by the arm and took me to his mother’s house where I sat at the table not able to understand the rapid conversation, his mother shelling beans and smiling occasionally but not in welcome, there was pity there already. He got me a hotel room. He explained, as he sat on the bed, that when he’d said he missed me he hadn’t meant missed me as if he wanted me to come. He said there was no way I could stay. He had devoted himself to his orthodox faith, no amount of love or conversion would ever make me worthy, and he didn’t love me anyway. I was wrong on every count but especially the counting up of feelings on his fingers as he took off his trousers and pushed my head down. My sewing machine sat in the corner. My bag I’d packed forever. I slept alone in a single bed and in the morning returned to the airport. At customs the military questioned this twenty-four hour stay in their country; I had a stamp for Morocco in my passport from a trip long ago, they didn’t believe my explanation of why I’d been there or why I was leaving Israel so soon after arriving. They asked if I was a spy. I had to call my Israeli who wasn’t mine anymore, who never had been. I telephoned him from the pay phone again, this time to come down to the airport and tell them a story of a stupid girl who’d bought a flight on a whim, who’d got the story of love all wrong. The military personnel thought it was the funniest story they’d ever heard. It must have been the way he told it. Oh how they laughed as I stood there, bag at my feet, sewing machine heavy in my hand. They waved me through, I’m not sure the Israeli said goodbye. When I got home I found the note I’d left on the kitchen table unopened. At supper that night my mother asked how was my day.
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Oh, Eleanor.
Devastating