Below is the fifth segment of my new short story—’A Surprise Visit’—never before published.
Beni, who observed her movements with detached curiosity, turned his eyes away from her now and zeroed them instead—appreciatively so—on the nude woman in the painting. But Noa sat down again and, as if on purpose, blocked his view. Her bare legs were touching his, while she unzipped his bomber jacket.
“You’re not in the army anymore, Beni. Take off your battledress.”
“I’m a bit cold.”
“You’ll be warm soon.”
She sent an enticing smile at him, then poured more wine into their cups. They sipped it slowly, meditatively, looking at one another as if they were both back home after a long journey, rediscovering the color of each other’s eyes. He was the one to look away first, though, as he got hold of the present he’d brought with him and handed it to her.
She unwrapped it and looked fondly at the cover of The Lover, a book by A.B.Yehoshua. She opened it and read his dedication.
“Thanks, Beni. It’s a wonderful book.”
“You read it already?”
“Yes, but I don’t have it. And now I do,” she said and stuck her tongue out. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you like it?”
“I… I haven’t read it yet. It just came out a few–”
“Liar,” she said, cutting him off. She put the hardcover book aside and got hold of his shirt, pulling his face very close to hers. “I can still read you, Beni, like an open book.”
He smiled, a flush of pleasure stealing into his face. “And what do you read there?”
“Oh… let me tell you, sweetheart: an old-fashioned story about a lover who never truly loves.”
A heavy silence hung in the dense air now, as if not only suspended, but trapped as well in the limited space between them. They were both challenged by their shared memories, yet were dealing with them separately, differently. Noa was quicker to shake them off, as she finally let go of his shirt and opened some distance between them, still staring at him intently.
“What are you doing here in the city, anyway?” she asked.
“Not much what?”
“Me and the Arab workers are building a university,” he said, a bitter smile playing on his face. “For the religious people.”
“You didn’t leave the kibbutz for that, did you?”
“And what if I did?”
“Nonsense. What do you want to study?”
He hesitated, unclear of his future plans. Or perhaps he was clear, just unsure about opening that door for her.
“I’m taking art lessons now,” she volunteered. “In the evenings.”
“I can see,” he said, looking again at the painting-in-progress on the easel. “I hope you’ll stick with it.”
“Of course I would. My crazy days are over.”
He looked at her closely, as a smirk was struggling to appear on his face.