She’s typing something on her computer now. Apparently filling out a standard form. Does it make sense that she doesn’t recognize him? Yes, he’s bald. And has a potbelly. And started wearing glasses a year ago. And his name isn’t exactly uncommon. When he and Nirit got married, they decided to blend their surnames, so from Gonter, his name, and Oren, hers, they created Goren. But even so, how is it possible that she doesn’t remember anything, while he watches her type with those long fingers of hers and remembers everything. The entire scene appears before his eyes.
—
One Friday, when they started their drive, he told her that they had to stop off in the apartment he and his roommates shared in Tel Aviv. He had forgotten to take his bag of laundry, he said. And he would be happy if she would help him carry it because there was a ton of it. They went into the apartment and he immediately asked her how many sugars he should put in her coffee. She said, No thanks. He asked if the no thanks was about the sugar or about the coffee. Both, she said, and remained standing. Why are you standing, make yourself at home, he said, and touched her for the first time, placing a hand on her shoulder and leading her toward the blue couch, thinking: Exactly the way I pictured it, it’s happening exactly the way I pictured it. Then he went into the kitchen and made himself coffee, twice, because he was so excited, he put two spoonfuls of salt in the first cup.
When he returned, he sat down very close to her, his leg almost touching hers, sipped his coffee, and asked: Are you sure you don’t want any? She shook her head, and he leaned over to put his cup on the small table. Then, with a pounding heart, he leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, stretched out his arm and trapped a strand of hair with two of his fingers.
—
What’s your family situation? she suddenly says. I forgot to ask.
Happily married plus three fantastic girls, he says.
How old are your daughters? she asks.
Twelve, fourteen, and eighteen. The oldest is starting the army on Sunday.
Where will she serve? A spark of interest ignites in her voice. Or is he just imagining it?
Intelligence, he says with a smile. He’s thinking that if even the tiniest muscle in her face moves now, it’s a sign.
But her face is frozen. Her body is frozen. Only her fingers continue to type. How much can she possibly have to type?
—
Then, too, she froze. But he continued to twist a strand of hair around his fingers, finding it difficult to part from the fantasy he had spun for so many months. Then he moved his fingers down her neck, as he had in the fantasy, to her beautiful collarbone, slightly lowering the Dacron collar so he could move along her collarbone to her shoulder, and a long moment later, he stopped. He asked her if it felt good. She moved her head slowly but clearly. To the right and then to the left. He touched her hair one last time and returned his hand to his lap. And that was that. He didn’t press up against her. Didn’t kiss her on the mouth. Didn’t tear off her uniform. On the contrary, he moved back and drank his now cool coffee as she rearranged her collar, and they sat beside each other in silence for another few moments. Along with the bitter disappointment and the desire to get on his knees and ask her forgiveness, anger began to grow inside him. All those light, seemingly random touches throughout the week in the office. All the times she leaned over his desk to show him documents, her long hair whipping his face, and the small dance of her sweeping the floor at the end of the day that seemed meant to emphasize her narrow waist. And the brief lingering a moment before she got out of his car in Beit Hanan, the lingering he was convinced meant: Kiss me.
—
Now he says: Excuse me—can I add something?
She straightens her glasses on her nose and says: I’m listening.
I’ll be as straight as I can with you, he says. When I left my last job, I never imagined it would be so hard to find work in this field. You saw my CV. You will agree with me that it’s not…sparse. Nevertheless, I’ve been going from interview to interview for six months now, and they give me the feeling that, because of my age, I’m not…current enough. Which is ridiculous. In marketing, it’s not age that counts, it’s hunger. Only hunger counts. Don’t you think so, Rotem?
Her lips tremble slightly when he says her name, and for the first time, he suspects that her behavior at this meeting is one big sham. But she quickly overcomes the trembling, goes back to typing, and says impassively, It doesn’t really matter what I think. There is an entire staff here that will make the decision.
But you have some influence, right? he persists.
Yes, I have some influence, she confirms.
So maybe you could pass on the message—he asks, his voice sounding too high in his ears, too pleading—that I am prepared to work hard. That if you give me the green light, I’ll get results.
I promise to pass on the message, she says with a small smile, a tiny smile, which
