Suddenly, a Knock on the Door: Stories Read Online Free PDF

case, he suddenly bent forward and tried to kiss her. Orit jumped back, and his lips didn’t touch hers. But the smell from his mouth did, blending with the smell of frying falafel oil and that moldy smell of the Rabbinate that clung to her hair. She took a few steps away from them and vomited into a flower box, and when she looked up, her eyes met Simyon’s. He froze for a minute and then started to run, to get away. Assi tried to call him back, but he didn’t stop. And that was the last time she saw him. Till today.
    On the way to the morgue, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to identify him. After all, she’d seen him only once, two years ago, and he was alive and well then. But now she knew right away that it was him. A green sheet covered his body up to his neck. His face was completely intact, except for a small hole no larger that a one-shekel coin in his cheek. And the smell of the corpse was just like the smell of his breath on her face two years ago. She’d thought about that moment many times. While they were still at the falafel stand, Assi had told her that it wasn’t her fault that Simyon had bad breath, but she always felt like it was. And today, when they knocked on the door, she should have remembered him. It wasn’t as if she’d gotten married a million times or anything. “Do you want us to give you a minute alone with your husband?” the captain asked. Orit shook her head. “Really. It’s okay to cry,” the captain said. “There’s no point in holding it in.”

SHUT
     
    I know a guy who fantasizes all the time. I mean, this guy even walks down the street with his eyes shut. One day, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of his car and I look over to the left and see him with both his hands on the wheel and his eyes shut. No kidding, he was driving like that on a main street.
    “Haggai,” I say, “that’s not a good idea. Haggai, open your eyes.” But he keeps driving like everything’s fine.
    “You know where I am now?” he asks me.
    “Open your eyes,” I say again, “come on, it’s freaking me out.” Miraculously, we didn’t crash.
    The guy would fantasize about other people’s homes, that they were his. About their cars, about their jobs. Never mind their jobs. About his wife. He’d imagine that other women were his wife. And kids, too, kids he met in the street or the park, or saw on some TV series, imagining they were his family instead of his own kids. He’d spend hours doing it. If it was up to him, he’d spend his whole life at it.
    “Haggai,” I say to him, “Haggai, wake up. Wake up to your own life. You have an amazing life. A fantastic wife. Great kids. Wake up.”
    “Stop,” he answers from the depths of his beanbag, “don’t ruin it. You know who I’m with now? Yotam Ratsabi, my old army buddy. I’m on a jeep tour with Yotam Ratsabi. Just me, Yoti, and little Eviatar Mendelssohn. He’s this wiseass kid from Amit’s kindergarten. And Eviatar, the little devil, says to me, ‘Dad, I’m thirsty. Can I have a beer?’ Picture it. The kid’s not seven yet. So I say, ‘No beer, Evi. You know Mom says it’s not allowed.’ His mom, my ex, I mean. Rona Yedidia from high school. Beautiful as a model, but tough, tough as nails.”
    “Haggai,” I say, “he’s not your kid and she’s not your wife. You’re not divorced, man, you’re happily married. Open your eyes.”
    “Every time I bring the kid home to her, I get a hard-on,” he says, like he doesn’t hear me. “A hard-on as big as a ship’s mast. She’s beautiful, my ex, beautiful but tough. And that toughness is what gives me a hard-on.”
    “She’s not your ex,” I say, “and you don’t have a hard-on.” I know what I’m talking about. He’s a meter away from me in his shorts. No hard-on there.
    “We had to split,” he says, “I hated being with her. And she hated being with herself too.”
    “Haggai,” I plead, “your wife’s name is Carnie. And yes, she’s beautiful.