The Others by Sarah Blau (best ereader for academics TXT) 📗

been able to read my mind with uncanny accuracy over the years, but as you’ve probably figured out by now, that’s not the particular set of traits that attracts me in a man. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Eli was the one who helped me realize, after hours of conversation, that a major part of my unfortunate attraction to young men lies in the fact that everything is still open before them, still shiny and fresh, even if they don’t end up pursuing any of their options – the power lying in the very promise is overwhelming. With Eli, for instance, just looking at him I can tell exactly how his life (or our shared life) would look in twenty years, down to the returns on our taxes, which obviously he’d fill out himself. On top of his many virtues, Eli is also the accountant for the museum I work for, but even an office romance isn’t quite exciting enough for you, huh?

About three years ago, after a night of bad dreams featuring all the ghosts of my past, I woke up frightened and dazed and fixed my eyes on the mirror to discover a bristly black hair sticking out from my chin. At that precise moment, the most pointless sentence in the Hebrew language popped into my mind: “Why not give it a try?”

Why not give Eli a try, Sheila? Why do you have to be that way? He’s been devoted to you for such a long time, and it’s not impossible that somewhere, deep inside you, there’s some kernel of attraction. After all, whenever he tells you he started dating someone, you feel the icy fist tightening around your heart, and you just can’t wait for the budding romance to shrivel and die, right?

I promised myself that when we next met I’d look at Eli as a serious object of desire, and somehow managed to stoke myself with such romantic ideations that I couldn’t wait to see him. Unfortunately, Eli, utterly in the dark about his new object-of-desire status, showed up in frayed brown slippers, and when I approached him, the smell they gave off was so repulsive that I instantly and permanently gave up all the “why not give it a try” fantasies.

It was only a few days later that I recalled that Eli wore those slippers often and never before had I given any thought to their particular aroma, so I must have ordered my subconscious to find him repulsive no matter what, and the said subconscious, obedient as ever – mainly to my self-destructive orders – simply honed in on the first thing it found.

Eli sips from the can without saying a word about my having nearly drunk it dry. It clinks against his teeth.

“I want to understand something,” he says, “did someone see you arrive at Dina’s on the night of the murder?”

“God, no,” I reply. “If that were the case I’d be busted by now, but apparently someone heard her opening the door for me.”

“At 7 p.m.? That detective told you it happened at 10.” I notice the slight change of tone when he says “that detective.”

“True, but that busybody might have gotten the time wrong.”

“Sheila, you know perfectly well nosy neighbours never get anything wrong.”

He’s right, of course, anyone who’s ever read a detective novel knows there is no one more in-the-know than the nosy neighbour. And no one more dangerous.

I tell him more about Micha’s visit without offering too many details, since I know Eli has it all figured out before I’ve even opened my mouth. He doesn’t ask any questions, knowing he’ll eventually hear more than he bargained for.

There’s only one thing that bothers him. “Dina called and initiated the meeting herself?” he asks. “After all these years? After everything that happened?”

“Yes.”

“So how come she wanted to meet all of a sudden?”

I sink into my chair, unable to bring myself to tell him how it all went wrong, how such terrible things were said, things that are painful just to think about, and how, after all these years, she still had the capacity to hurt me. And you honed your capacity to hurt her, so stop whining. You’re the one who’s still breathing.

“So how are you? It’s been years!”

More than a decade and a half, dear, but who’s counting. I give her the once-over, disappointed to find that her photos in the papers hadn’t been retouched and that she really does look terrific, with all that black hair, the regal forehead and big dark eyes. In college they used to say we looked alike, and back then it was sort of true, but the marks life has left on us removed any resemblance: she looks sated and smug while I project a kind of constant hunger. But at least she seems to have put on a few pounds, crossed that fine line from curvy to chubby. Goody.

We consider each other, locking eyes like a couple of gunslingers. I’m the first to avert my gaze, and it lands on a wall covered with shiny diplomas and certificates of appreciation. And there’s also that one picture I know well, of a figure I know well, all too well, I can’t help myself and read the caption aloud, slowly, “Miriam the prophetess.”

“It’s not the same picture,” she blurts out.

“Obviously,” I reply. We both know what happened to the original picture, and neither of us is bent on bringing it up. The picture from that night. The image of young Dina suddenly flits before me, hair dishevelled, big eyes gaping wide, face flushed with excitement, white knuckles clenching the tambourine, pounding on it with all her might, like the palpitations of a big, angry heart, Thrump, thrump, thrump!

“You still play the drums?” I ask and can’t believe that question came out of my mouth, and before I had even taken a seat in one of her lustrous white armchairs. I must hate her more than I thought.

“I quit,” she replies, and judging by her tone I