I couldn’t believe my four eyes.
Which is another way of saying, there were so many men at this rooftop party in Tel Aviv – So many single men! So many straight, single men! So many non-religious, straight, single men! – that I nearly passed out from the shock of it all!
What can I tell you? Ever since kindergarten at Solomon Schechter, the Rebecca’s have outnumbered the Aaron’s by four to one, if you know what I mean.
And since then it has just gotten worse.
It didn’t even matter that all the men looked the same to me, with their shaved heads, white tshirts and jeans – apparently, the secular Israeli male dress code of choice. As I told my girlfriend while we eyed the merchandise all around us, at this point I didn’t even care if the guy was dead.
As long as my dead man was a lively dancer.
Soon I got my wish.
A guy (shaved head, tshirt, jeans) started talking me up because I happened to be loitering next to one of refreshment tables, by which I mean, the table literally covered with bottles of alcohol.
Honestly? I don’t even remember what he said. All I know is that a few glasses of Araq later, and we were making out right there smack dab in the middle of the party. And because this is Israel, even though there were people inches away from us, they just carried on business as usual.
Who was this man and what was he to me?
All I know is that an hour or so later I hailed a cab to the bus station to take me to the shared cab back to Jerusalem, followed by another cab back home. Which is another way of saying, that commute from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv just kills me.
As I woke up my sleeping ball of dog and took him to the park across from my apartment for a post-midnight walk, the sky was dark and meloncholy. It felt like the heavens were misting up a bit, crying perhaps for poor Avigail who, instead of curling up in bed with a book with my husband and children sleeping soundly nearby, I was still searching for love in all the wrong places.
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