New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

by Shelly Oria

  * * *

  When I leave the office I’m shaking. I call Lizzie three times. Finally she picks up and she hears the trembling and she says What’s wrong, what’s wrong. I say, I think I’m done. Lizzie says, You’ve said it before. I say, No, I mean I’m done trying. Lizzie says nothing and I say, Liz, it’s not going away and I’m spending my life trying to change my life instead of living it. But what else can you do, Lizzie says very quietly, like a secret. I don’t know yet, I say, but whatever it is, I have to do it on my own. We can figure something out, she says, just because the bonfire didn’t work it doesn’t mean— Liz, I say, that’s the whole point; no more we can figure it out. I need to figure it out. The last words come out louder than I intended. Lizzie is quiet again. I am walking faster now, and I feel like I can walk forever, all the way to Israel and back. I know that I can’t, but the thought makes me light, and when I realize Lizzie is no longer on the line I put the phone in my pocket. I am almost running now, and it stops the shaking. I look at my legs; I can see my muscles working, my feet landing neatly on the ground every time to keep me from falling. I think, We are a team, my legs and me. I think, I am strong.

  STAND STILL

  In the office where we worked, a windowless kitchenette stood at the end of a hall; in it, an espresso machine proudly rose from a countertop made of cold marble. One day, we craved the coolness of the marble, the heat of bitter caffeine, at the exact same time. In the kitchenette, we reached for the knob, then for the nozzle. Our hands touched, our skins tickled. The machine roared, let out steam. Still, we laughed it off. We said Excuse me. We returned to our desks and emulated the motions of coworkers. You see, we had both offered our freedom to other people long ago, and they’d accepted.

  * * *

  The next day it happened again. And again.

  * * *

  One of us, though we are not at liberty to say who, began to suspect the presence of a powerful force.

  * * *

  For a while, only a few people shared our secret. After nodding at these people over glasses of stale iced tea, as they advocated for restraint and touched the tips of our shoulders, we’d often find gray spots under our skin. They looked like bruises. We knew what they were. We had no escape, the force was reminding us, lest our friends’ words fool us.

  Once, we bought a special detergent, legal in our state only for the use of veterinarians with pure intentions. Over the small kitchenette faucet we hunched, as one of us tried to scrub the other clean. We squeezed grainy matter out of green tubes. It didn’t work.

  * * *

  What could we do? We said goodbye to our spouses, affectionately kissed them on the cheek, avoided their eyes as we reached for the door. We left many items behind. We held on to our keys. Anything else, we knew, would be too cruel.

  * * *

  We had a plan: separate apartments. It’s the difference between cooking to surprise a lover, and cooking because your lover is hungry, we said. But every morning we’d wake up together, unable to remember the previous night. Unwittingly, we started using the same Laundromat. At the grocery store, we found ourselves aware of each other’s preferences, shopping for two. Why am I choosing semisoft tomatoes? one of us would think; I always said soy can’t be milk, the other would mumble, carton in hand. Soon, the elaborate ring of keys felt heavy in our pockets, and the clinking sound it made annoyed us.

  * * *

  We found a house with leaves on every window. We were undressing each other so often that some days putting clothes back on seemed a waste of time. We appreciated the trees for this reason—they made it so we could be naked and believe ourselves unobserved. Except, that is, for the force, which, we assumed, if it wanted to watch us would not be deterred by greenery.

  * * *

  After a while, one of us—and it truly doesn’t matter who—had a crisis in the family. We have different memories of what the crisis was—one of us believes a beloved aunt fell ill, while the other remembers it clearly as a sibling’s drug problem. What is not in dispute is that solving the crisis involved travel and an extended stay, and that while one of us was packing, the other felt terrified, and thrilled.

  * * *

  While one of us was away, the other started working long hours, creating expectations in the office that later proved difficult to amend. We were not working in the same office by then, but we were still in the same business—figuring out if companies needed to get bigger or smaller—and we both understood the nature of that business.

  * * *

  We still talk about that trip often—it seemed to take something away from us, and perhaps give something in return. We admit that freely, often over a glass of wine, and one of us tickles the other’s knee to remind us we are still playful.

  * * *

  Over time, we got in the habit of taking our own clothes off when needed. When you undress yourself, you have plenty of time to close a curtain, and so the trees grew less important. But we still loved the green on our windows, especially when the yellow of the sun mixed with it a particular way. Such views were hard to come by in our state—most living quarters were overlooking other living quarters. We fully accepted that our love for our windows meant staying in our rather expensive home. And we accepted that that, in turn, meant one of us—the one making more money—had to work even longer hours. It seemed necessary to have a home that looked like a home, if we were ever to have children, which we kept feeling we would want next year. That’s life, we both said, and shrugged. During the workday, we texted each other often.

  * * *

  These days, we have a good division of labor in the household. We hug each other often, to convey support. We cook—dinner, sometimes breakfast, and definitely brunch on weekends. We own a humidifier.

  We’re big on personal hygiene—a shower or a bath every day, sometimes two. Showers and baths are taken separately, for convenience. We fantasize about a big house. Our big house would have exposed-brick walls, a fireplace, and a Jacuzzi where two people could bathe together and save time. The big house is not our only fantasy: sometimes we fantasize about other people. (It’s only natural, we remind ourselves; we try to forget our past.) We eat cereal frequently. We often stay up late. We take turns buying soap and toilet paper. We never watch Doctor Phil.

  * * *

  Occasionally, we see our friends, many of whom have developed a drinking problem. They spike their iced teas, lean back and stare at things we can’t see. They don’t touch the tips of our shoulders. They ask about our house and our jobs, and we ask about theirs, but most of the time no one answers. Sometimes they ask about our old spouses, about how they’re doing. We say we hear one of them got a dog, the other a cat. We say both of them have moved away. We say from all accounts they are happy, dating. For all we know, these things could be true.

  * * *

  Sometimes we go to parties. We talk to new people at these parties—some couples, some who are not coupled. These people are mostly attractive, and sometimes they say things like Hi, I’m Shira. They find an excuse to touch one of us while the other is eating Brie in another part of the room. I love your shirt; is it silk?

  * * *

  When we come home, we look for gray spots under our skin. We shake a little as we uncover ourselves to see. Every time, our skin is clear. We stand there for a moment, looking. Then we start touching each other with relief.

  * * *

  We realize, of course, that one day the force may strike again, leaving one of us breathless at the side of the road. We realize, but we try not to think about that. When we do, we say things like This understanding only makes us stronger. Sometimes one of us nods, says, Right, then adds, But how, exactly? It’s as if all that exists for us is the present, the other says; in it, we must stand still, hold each other firmly.

  THE THING ABOUT SOPHIA

  Saturday

  Saturdays we’d have brunch at Curly’s. Sophia said Definitely Curly’s, no brunch in the city better than Cu
rly’s and no neighborhood better than the East Village on a Saturday morning. She said morning but really she meant afternoon.

  At Curly’s they serve brunch till four p.m. on Saturdays. Anything you want done vegan you can get, and if you asked Sophia that’s just the way the world should be. We always got too much food, but too much food on purpose is different from too much food by mistake; when there’s no miscalculation involved, too much food is simply called supper, or sometimes brunch for Sunday. Also at Curly’s, they give you a brunch drink for free with every brunch entrée ordered. Also tea. If you say you don’t like tea and can you please get two drinks instead, sometimes they say yes, sometimes no. One of the things about Sophia: she asks questions, the world says yes. Two of the waitresses became her friends, a third fell in love. So Saturdays at Curly’s, usually we got buzzed, and fake bacon never tasted better.

  What happens when you get buzzed but you’re already a little bit buzzed from the night before is that you feel free. So Saturdays at Curly’s was the time of the week when I would say things to Sophia like I love you so much, you are the best roommate anyone could ask for, and the worst: I hope we’ll be like this forever. Kir in hand, Sophia would laugh every time, finger my cheekbones (both sides, slowly), and say, Booney-Boo, you know there’s no such thing as forever.

  Sunday

  Even though microwave-heated Curly’s huevos rancheros is nothing like the original, brunching with Sophia on our living-room floor (we only got a coffee table two weeks before I moved out) was my favorite Sunday activity. I’d get the blue-yellow blanket from the bedroom and we’d call it Indoor Picnic.

  But not every Sunday was Indoor Picnic Sunday. Some Sundays Sophia would wake up in the morning and, after brushing her teeth and before getting coffee, say, I can’t be domesticated today. I knew better than to show disappointment, because show Sophia that you’re disappointed and you can count on being alone for a week. So I’d say, Cool, what’d you have in mind?, because that was my way of saying maybe we can do something undomesticated together. But when Sophia wanted to feel undomesticated it usually meant she needed time away from me, so she’d say, Oh, you know I can’t think before my first cup of coffee.

  A good time to explain about the bedroom: when I first moved in, the two rooms were both called bedrooms, and the rest of the apartment was a space we shared. Then one Sunday morning Sophia said, Let’s make the small room a recording studio. Sophia was buying another guitar then and all kinds of expensive equipment, and I was mostly sleeping in her room anyway, so it seemed sensible. She said, If I have a studio I’ll have to get serious. I thought she was already plenty serious about her music, but Sophia was always looking for ways to get serious about things, and if you said anything back that sounded like advice, all of a sudden you were her enemy. Then you needed to make it up to her, and that wasn’t always easy, so the best way was to say, That’s a great idea. I said, That’s a great idea, and that’s how Sophia’s bedroom became our bedroom and my room became her studio.

  Another thing that sometimes happened on Sundays was End of Weekend Blues. That was especially common on Indoor Picnic Sundays: when Sophia looked outside and the window said evening, she would get antsy, like she was waiting for someone to arrive. I had to be careful, because when she got like that saying the wrong thing was something that could creep up on you. One minute there would be peacefulness, the next you were fighting with Sophia and you felt like she hated you, because Sophia doesn’t know how to fight with the future in mind. Sophia fights like Sophia cooks like Sophia makes love like Sophia plays the guitar: as though possibly it’s the last thing she’ll ever do. Her eyes get so red there is no green left in them. Her lips get tight and lose their heart shape completely. She screams without stopping for air, and even if it’s a day before a show, she forgets she is supposed to watch her voice. I know the reason: this is also a show, and it is no less important to her than any other. But when someone is throwing loud, hurtful words at you, your heart doesn’t care about reasons. Sometimes she throws things, too.

  Monday

  Monday was Sophia’s Errands Day. Sophia’s definition for errands is Anything you hate to do, and her theory is it should all be compressed to one day or you end up believing your life sucks. So, for example, grocery shopping is not an errand, but calling her aunt Zelda is. If Sophia has a toothache and the receptionist says Thursday one week from today, Sophia will say Give me the next available Monday, because going to the dentist is an errand, and errands are done on Mondays. And if you tell her it doesn’t make sense to suffer tooth pain longer than you have to, she’ll make a face like she just swallowed something sour and say, Clearly, you don’t know much about artists.

  It was a Monday before Sophia meant anything to me, five, maybe six p.m., and I was standing at the door with my suitcases and everything. A while later, when I learned about Sophia’s week, I realized I must have been one of her errands that Monday. Interview Lydia’s cousin. The thing about Sophia, she opens the door, you see right away how beautiful she is; you see right away it’s the kind of beauty everyone wants to share. I was funny to her then—first thing she did was laugh. I laughed too, because her laughter made me happy, even though I knew it was directed at me and didn’t know why, which is usually unpleasant. Finally she said, Lydia couldn’t have been more right. Lydia is a relative of mine, second-cousin-once-removed sort of relative, and she was the one to say, You go ahead and move to the city and you’ll see things will just work out. She gave me Sophia’s number, and on the phone Sophia gave me the address and said, See you then, so I assumed I was moving in. I didn’t know then that in New York people interview other people to be roommates; I thought you usually went on interviews when you wanted other people to hire you, pay you, not when you wanted to pay them. I packed everything I had—which wasn’t much, because the man I was leaving was the kind who sues if you take stuff—in two suitcases and one huge handbag. I took a cab from Penn Station and told myself the stuff was simply too heavy, but really I was just afraid of the subway. Then: Sophia, laughing, and I knew right away, though it still took some time to figure out.

  Tuesday

  Tuesdays Sophia usually spent the day auditioning people for her band. If she liked someone (usually a drummer), that person would be auditioning other people with her the following Tuesday, but often by the Tuesday after that they’d be gone; it rarely took Sophia more than a week to discover Disparities in Artistic Visions.

  Sophia loved those Tuesdays, and the more people showed up, the happier she was. Really, when you think about it, Sophia was auditioning all the time, not just on Tuesdays; some auditions were simply more official than others. Sophia ran auditions for friends, for lovers, for people who might cook for her or tell her things she didn’t know. And people just kept showing up, trying their hardest, because that’s the thing about Sophia: she makes you feel like her approval is the one ingredient you’re missing.

  Let me explain about the finances, though my knowledge is limited. I shared a bed with Sophia for over a year, and in that year more often than not we appeared to the world as two halves of a thing, but still: what Sophia doesn’t want to discuss she won’t, and good luck to you if you think What’s the harm in just raising the question. So here’s what I do know: Sophia doesn’t have to work. There is no lavishness about her, but she firmly believes that needs should be met. If a certain need means money, then money will be spent; but mostly Sophia thinks about money the way most people think of socks—sometimes essential, at other times unnecessary, but either way not an interesting topic for conversation or thought.

  Over time I’ve heard more than one theory about Sophia’s finances, because people think if someone who has money isn’t interested in money there must be something they don’t know, and when people think there’s something they don’t know, they talk. Lydia said a trust fund, and Lydia has known Sophia for years, so possibly that’s right. In fact, that was one of the first things she told me when w
e talked about my leaving that jerk and moving to New York. She said A friend of mine, said We go way back, and said She’s living off a trust fund that would last her great-grandkids if she ever has any, and she’s pretty generous, so maybe you won’t have to worry about money for a while.

  Of course I always worry about money, and living with Sophia didn’t change that at all.

  One night at a party we were throwing, a very tall girl who seemed to know a lot about Sophia said, Babe, I’d be dreading Monday so bad if it weren’t for you, and touched Sophia’s arm, and Sophia smiled and went to the kitchen to get more beer. What’s Monday? I asked the tall girl, because that was before I learned that Sophia’s people often judged you by how much you really knew about Sophia. The tall girl snorted and said, The shoot; once a year she still has to do it or there’ll be no money for pretty girls like you to live off her. I don’t live off her, I said all deadpan, and got up to go help Sophia with the beer; but really I felt happy that she said I was pretty. So that was the second theory I heard.

  Then, once, Sophia said, An old friend will be staying with us a couple of nights, and when the old friend arrived she was young and beautiful and Sophia’s ex. Her name was Anna but Sophia called her Honeydew. Sophia rarely called anyone by their given name. For a whole evening it was Honeydew remember this and Honeydew remember that, and Of course, Sophie, how could I ever forget. I felt unnecessary, but we were drinking a lot and gradually it got better. At some point I looked out the window, and even though I squinted I still couldn’t tell if it was dark or bright, and I couldn’t remember in which room we kept the clock, and I heard Anna giggle and say, Is he still sending you that much every month? and You should really see that stock person I told you about, Sophie, you’re being irresponsible. So that was the third theory I heard about Sophia’s money, except I had no idea what I heard.