kagablog

The sun is shining, I can see glimpses of it when I look up at his blinds.

It casts thin white stripes across his sheet creased face. His clutching a corner of the blanket close to his cheek. He looks like a five year old, the blanket balled up in his fist.

Looking at his hands brings it all back.

I think of those thick fingers deep inside me, two at a time.

Suddenly I’m having a hard time breathing.

I keep rubbing my eyes. I wish I could look him, and this apartment, and think this is my life, and feel comfortable.

There are tequila bottles, some half empty, one broken on the counters and floor. The kitchen floor is covered with salt. It feels course and strange under my feet. I found one of my socks, purple with a blood stain on one toe from a blister I had from wearing heels, but I can’t find the other one. I find my tank top and my panties under my shoes, but I don’t know where my bra is.

There are mascara stains under my eyes, I see them when I look in the bathroom mirror.

There is a cut on my arm, just under my elbow.

I trace it with my finger.

He’s still asleep. The apartment is a studio, I can see him from the bathroom.

He has the sheet wrapped around him, tangled through his legs. His chest is bare, and it looks like he’s not wearing underwear.

It starts coming back, like vomit rising in the back of my throat. I met him at the bar. He’s Australian. He’s an artist. His name is Joe. He asked me to come to his house party when I got off work, and I came.

I knew what I was getting myself into and I told myself that it was ok. My first time didn’t really count.

I was almost twenty two. I needed to get over it. He was attractive. I needed to have sex.

His friends and I quietly and openly judged each other. He pulled me close to him around 1:30 am. He said we should dance. They were playing that song Frontier Psychiatrist by the Avalanches. The chorus, the words, ‘that boy needs therapy, over over’ while he kissed me. I pulled away, leaned against the open window, half considered jumping out.

He told me he always thought I was hot, hotter than the other girls there, he had to drink a lot to make a move, he said. He thought about it all the time, when he came into the bar, didn’t think he was good enough to try. I tried not to laugh, it was ridiculous. He was beautiful, blonde hair, tribal armband tattoo on perfect tanned biceps. He had no trouble getting women. It sounded like a line, but I wanted it to be true. You’re too suspicious of men, I told myself. He could be a nice guy. He leaned forward, brushed a piece of hair out of my face. You don’t know how hard it is, he said, to find someone you’re attracted to that you also find interesting. You’re an interesting girl, you know. I like your accent. I looked at him, stood there swaying from snorting too much coke, trying to act like I did it all the time, like I was cool.

He took me to his bedroom, kissing me, gently pushing me into the wall behind me. He

is a little rough when he takes off my clothes.

I bit my lip. I like him, I told myself, over and over. I know him, enough anyway. I wanted this.

It started to feel good. I found myself moaning, not wanting it to be over. I felt free for the first time in a long time. I closed my eyes, heart pounding in my ears, blood pumping below my waist, tears falling that I didn’t notice until after. He didn’t notice at all, or didn’t act like he did. That was intense, was all he said when we were finished.

His apartment is on the twelfth floor, the top floor of the building. He has a balcony that’s on the roof, that had space for everyone. He took me downstairs, to the bedroom, closed the door. I didn’t know how to act so I improvised. He asked me to stay the night. I didn’t have enough money to take a cab so I did. This morning, I’ll walk then take the streetcar home.

I find my pants on the floor near foot of the bed, find my jacket on the pile near the door, put my shoes on even though I only have one sock.

He doesn’t wake up as I close the door and a part of me feels relieved. In the living room, there is a massive canvas that all his guests were encouraged to draw on all night. I grab a black marker and write the word vryheid in the corner in capital letters. Freedom. Then underneath it, in smaller letters, I write dankie vir alles. Thanks for everything. I don’t need to sign it.

I find myself smiling as the sun hits my face when I step outside, onto the street.

I didn’t leave him because it hurt, because I was scared he’d do it again, or because I couldn’t defend myself against him.

I didn’t do it because of the anger that twisted his features, that burned in his retinas, that shot with little balls of spit from his mouth, that bent his fingers into a fist when he punched my face.

I didn’t do it because in that moment he didn’t seem human, or because in that moment or the ones leading up to it, he was deaf to anything I said, snarling, jumping down my throat.

I didn’t fight back, because I wanted him to hurt me. I wanted it to be over.

That was the easy part, does that make sense?

I wanted him to hurt me, to do his worst, so that we were both sure it was over. Because for a few weeks, that’s what I’d known without a shadow of a doubt.

I didn’t love him anymore. I wasn’t sure I ever had.

I was just waiting, waiting for the right time to get out.

Waiting for the right moment to re evaluate my life. Trying to figure out what my next move should be, where I should go.

It wasn’t a question of if, but when. Does that sound cold? I know I cared about him, of course. But I’d been slowly detaching for weeks, slowly getting my life back. I knew what he was capable of. He’d hit me before, and I tried, tried so hard to say it was ok, to understand it.

For the first time in a long time the future looked too wide open, too full of possibility.

I didn’t know what to do so for a month I did nothing.

I moved in to a backpackers hostel at Spadina and King to get away from him. I didn’t have a lot of stuff- just clothes and cds, a few books, my camera, canvas, art supplies. I never had any furniture.

I took sleeping pills at night to help me fall asleep.

I used an internet cafe nearby to contact friends. I went to work, but I changed my shift hours so he couldn’t find me. I went for walks by myself, or with Anika, the girl I work with. If we got off work at a decent hour, we’d take the streetcar east on Queen and go for walks down by Cherry Beach.

We make jokes about it- about the water you can’t actually swim in, the lack of waves, the e coli, the tons of sand the bulldozers must have brought in to make it look like a real beach.

It’s beautiful though. We’d take our shoes off, sink our feet into the sand, listen to the water softly hit the rocks, the seagulls cawing.

It’s the closest thing to nature, to the beaches near our hometowns that we can get here. It’s both of our favourite places in this city.

She’d bring vodka or whiskey in a metal flask. She taught me how to drink the hard stuff.

It turns out that she’s been dating our boss, Dez, for almost a year. It was kind of a secret for a long time, then they broke up but now they’re thinking of getting back together.

It’s amazing how little you know sometimes about people you see every day.

Do you trust him, I asked her one night. She looked down at her hands. I guess I have to, she said.

No, but I mean, in your heart, do you really believe he’ll never cheat on you?

Her eyes were focused on the water. Honestly? I don’t know. I want to believe that I can trust him. I really do.

I mean, she looked at me- you remember what he was like when we first started working there? All the girls at work he’d hook up with? I nodded. Yeah, I said, of course. Everyone knew about that. I think girls would come to the bar just try to sleep with him. There were so many of them, and some of them were young, younger than us for sure.

I thought about it for a second. But then he just kind of stopped, I said.

Right, she interrupted, and smiled. Since we got really involved all those months ago.

That, or he got more discreet about it, I said. You have to admit that it’s possible.

I mean, she paused. Of course. Of course it’s possible. She sighed.

I didn’t want to hurt her. But we were friends now. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t being deceived.

It’d be hard for anyone to break a pattern of that many years, I said. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t just start doing that a year ago. I hate to say it, An. He probably did it to other women too.

Her grey eyes looked soft and watery.

I wish I could explain it to you, or even to myself in a way that made sense. It just feels like one of those things I have to do. It’s a risk I have to take. There’s something I feel for him that’s special. Something I’ve never felt before. I went through this terrible thing, this attack that took me out of myself for so long. I was so afraid of everything, especially of guys. Something in my gut told me it was ok to trust him. So I did. That has to count for something right? There’s something unique about the way we connect, she said. There’s something comfortable about it, I can talk to him in a way I’ve never been able to talk to anyone else. I can be myself, and it’s ok.

Do you know what I mean, she asked me. I did, but I didn’t say anything.

She continued. It’s worth it to hope against hope sometimes, you know? If I’m right, if he’s trustworthy, he could be the love of my life. If I’m wrong, and he cheats on me, at least I’ll know I tried. I really love him, Nicki- I have to try.

I held her hands as they shook. She was so brave.

I mean, I’ll only know if I survive jumping off the cliff if I actually jump, right? And that’s the thing Nicki, that’s the thing I realized after all this time apart. Maybe I will get hurt, but I’m not going to die.

Maybe it won’t work out, but at least I won’t have missed out on anything. I’m done living my life in fear of everything bad. It doesn’t protect you. It just stops you from living.

I told her how much I admired her.

She laughed. You could do it, too, she said. I hadn’t told her about Nir yet, and I didn’t want to until I spoke to him. When I got home that night I used the internet cafe to email him.

I didn’t have a subject line, and just wrote one line in the body. Ani Mitgaga’at eilecha. I wrote. I miss you. He wrote back two hours later, just one line.

Gam Ani, it said. Me too.

We’re lying in bed. What’s it like, I ask him, where you’re from? It’s nice, he says. It’s got a lot of bars.

I smile. Like CDRR? He laughs. No, not as cool. He runs his fingers along my stomach. The heat is on full blast in the apartment, and it’s as hot as Cape Town in February. I can’t stop sweating. I’m just wearing my bra and underwear. I pull off his t shirt so he’s just wearing white boxer briefs. I’m lying on his chest.

I don’t know, he says. It’s nice. We a couple of soccer stadiums, and our team is pretty good.

I mean, some people in Brazil call us zebras, but I don’t know, we’ve been doing really well these last few seasons. Zebras, I ask. Oh, yeah. It’s what we call a team that we’re sure is going to lose. Deu zebra.

I have no idea why, actually. I laugh. I like it when you speak Portuguese, I tell him. It’s kind of hot.

He kisses me. Você é belo e sexy, he says. You’re beautiful and sexy. I try to repeat the words, the sounds, try to look him in the eye, because he is both of those things.

That’s good, he says. That’s really good. He kisses my neck.

No, tell me more about your city, I say. We have to have conversations, sometimes, I tell him. I want to really get to know you.

He grins. Ok, conversation first, then sex. I laugh, and nod.

Ok, he says. We have a lot of universities and parks. There’s a national park not too far away called Mata do Jambreiro. It’s one of my favourite places in the world. You drive through it. It’s the biggest forest I’ve ever seen, full of Rosewood and Cedar trees, I used to like to roll the windows down, and just sniff. It smelled like perfume. There were squirrels and monkeys swinging from trees. I saw an anteater there once, have you ever seen one in real life?

I try to think if I have.

They really snort ants, tons of them at once, like the most hardcore cokeheads I’ve ever seen. It’s so funny. My mom and dad used to take us there when we were little kids. I wish you could see it, he says. His tone is dreamy. I nod. Me too, I say.

My city’s surrounded by mountains on all sides. It’s kind of weird for me, how flat Toronto is, you know? Yeah, I say. I do know. The layout of this city is too clean and easy, it’s boring. All you have to do is memorize the names of intersections and you never get lost. He nods. Which is good, if you’re afraid of getting lost, like me. I look up at him and grin. Seriously? You’re afraid of getting lost?

He sighs. Ok. I got lost in a mall once, when I was a kid. It was like, childhood trauma or something.

I start to laugh, then realize he’s serious. What, it was scary, he says, and I touch his face. How old were you, I ask? Five, he says, staring off, away from me. It took my mom two hours to find me, and the first thing she did was slap me. I look up at him, take his hand. Shame, skat, I say.

He asks me what skat means, and I tell him it’s what you call someone you care about, like sweetheart or honey. I like it, he says.

I feel shy all of a sudden, so I change the subject.

Cape Town’s got a lot of mountains too. I tell him about Table Mountain, how deeply carved the stone is, how the top is so flat you could eat on it, how on overcast days the white clouds swirl over, like a table cloth. I tell him about the game reserves, how you can see lions and their cubs up close. I tell him about Kloof St, the main street downtown, that’s full of boutiques bursting with local designer stuff, and little restaurants, and bars, so many bars. I tell him about Evol, the dance club on Hope Street I used to go to with my sister that played indie rock and alternative stuff. I tell him how the regulars dress there, I describe the skin tight jeans, the thick eye liner. I never felt cool enough when I went, so I stopped. I told him about playing pool with my friends at Stones, how no one ever asked you for ID if you were a girl. I told him about the bergies, the homeless people who sit around, waiting to steal your cigarettes out of your hands, always asking me for money I never had. I smile. I love how you always try to give money to homeless people, I tell him. The other night, we were walking down the street, and he stopped and gave a guy ten dollars. He spent ten minutes listening to the guy rant, before he realized we had to go.

I pull myself up, closer to him, trace his heart with my fingertips. He doesn’t know how kind he is.

I tell him about the beach, how clear and salty the water was, how deep the green or blue, how some had the Atlantic and some had the Indian ocean, how cold the Atlantic was. I told him how my friends and I would go at night, take a bottle of red wine and sit talking, on the sand. I told him about fire throwing shows that went on one of the beaches at night, how magical it felt to watch them when you were a little drunk, how the oranges and reds blurred into the black sky, into the tiny glittering stars.

I tell him about the crime, the men who stand around waiting to rob people who use the ATM near the supermarket near my old house. I tell him how many security systems we had, how we had walls and barbed wire and a dog, how it wasn’t enough. I don’t realize it but I’m crying. I tell him how much I miss my sister, my mother, how I never talk to my dad, and when I do, he’s vacant, vague. I tell him how I feel like I’ve lost him too. I miss my old life sometimes, I find myself saying. I miss what it was, what it could’ve been. I miss being able to dance, knowing what my future was going to be, knowing exactly what I was good at. I miss feeling like a kid, feeling like I didn’t have to be responsible for every choice and decision I made. I miss having a home. He puts both arms around me, he’s holding me close. Sometimes I wish you could protect me if I go back, I tell him. I’m too afraid to go alone. But I miss it.

I will, he tells me, over and over, stroking my hair, til I fall asleep.

He has a way, of making me feel like I’m not alone, even when I’m sure I am.

Goodnight skat, he says, before I drift off.

He makes me feel like he’s really with me. He makes me feel like I can trust him.

My parents called me today from Israel to tell me that my sister is having a baby.

She’s four years younger than me and has been married for less than a year.

The conversation is short, and typical. My dad talks for two minutes, asks me how I am, if I’m making enough money, what my plans are. My mom starts out friendly but soon is angry, hyperventilates, cries and screams. I do not want to go back for the birth, or if it’s a boy, for the bris.

I do not want to hear how superior my sister is to me in every way. I do not want anything to do with any of it.

If I had to describe each of my parents in one word, I would say that my dad is distant and my mom is hysterical.

Both of them are controlling and rigid in their views.

My parents owned the apartment I grew up in, which in Israel, where everyone is in the red, is a big deal. Our apartment was a penthouse. It was so huge it took up half a floor, despite the fact that we were only four people. It could’ve comfortably housed at least eight.

Our balcony looped all the way around our apartment, and in the summer, when it was thirty five or thirty seven degrees during the day, and about thirty at night, I’d fall asleep on one of our loungers, surrounded by white marble floors and walls, staring out at the grass and trees behind the parking lot below, the sounds of neighbours talking, stray cats hissing. We had a stray cat problem on our street, even by Israeli standards. An old man in my building, he must have at least eighty, shrivelled hanging skin on his face, narrow brown eyes, thin strands of remaining grey hair, only two or three visible teeth, wizened hands. He used to collect fish heads, scraps of bread, half containers of yogurt or milk, and he’d feed them every single day at 3:00. Sometimes on Fridays he’d buy them discount cat food at the supermarket on the corner of our street. We had at least twenty of them- fat ginger ones, thin calicos, mangy matted tabbies, ones that were missing eyes, or parts of paws, scratched to shit for stepping on other cat’s territory or trying to eat its food. They slept on or under people’s cars, staring at you lazily in the sun, glaring when you make eye contact, daring you to kick them off. My dad hated them- a cat on his windshield in the mornings made him fly into a rage.

Neither of my parents cared much for animals. There’s a home video of my dad kicking someone in the family’s dog as he walked down the aisle at a wedding. My mom didn’t want anything that would make the house dirty- I have enough to do as it is, she would always tell us. Ein Li Coah, she would say, I don’t have the strength.

Our apartment was once actually two apartments- my parents bought them both, knocked one down and combined them. My dad made his fortune in what we call High Tech in Israel, but what everyone else in the world calls I.T. He designed software, and created a mapping system for the army to use that they say revolutionized their ability to do tracking. Not only did it give him a reputation for being a genius, it gave him a salary and a title to match, as he loves to tell people. Now he’s a boss, telling programmers what to do. He works for Amdocs, a huge company on the border of my town and the next city. He still works at least sixty hours a week, so even when I lived at home, I hardly ever saw him.

My mom works part time in Ramat Hasharon, a suburb of Tel Aviv, as a florist. She likes exotic flowers, oranges and reds and purples, shipped in from outside of Israel, the kind that cost a fortune. Israeli’s pride themselves on getting a good deal, so it’s a hard sell. She comes home frustrated and complaining, picking me apart, yelling, slamming things. On her days off, she cries and had panic attacks.

My mom does not believe in long term therapy, on in taking medication.

I’ve given up trying to help her but I’ve also given up on hearing what a disappointment I am.

My sister Noa is twenty. Her husband, Reuven, is a rabbi. They live in B’nei Brak, a city full of people so Orthodox they seem Amish.

My parents are modern orthodox, but they’re at least five rungs closer to heaven on the ladder.

I mean, they keep the Sabbath, more or less, and they keep to the laws of being kosher, at least when they’re eating at home. They dress like regular people too. My mom wears jeans, my dad wears shorts and t shirts, even to work. Israel’s pretty casual compared to Canada.

My sister wears a wig to cover her hair, floor length denim skirts and long sleeved shirts even in the summer. She won’t sit alone in a room with a man who isn’t her husband, or see a male doctor or dentist, or shake hands or touch any other man. When they go on vacation, he goes to men’s only, and she goes to women’s only beaches so they won’t be exposed to anyone of the opposite sex. When she has her period, she’s not allowed to touch her husband in any way, not even accidentally, like if she brushes his arm when she passes him the milk at breakfast. They’re not even allowed to sleep in the same bed at that time, and she has to take a ritual bath once a month, called a Mikvah, to clean herself. I didn’t want to get involved, I didn’t want to say anything, but how could I not feel angry when she told me about it and then asked me what I thought? God wants you to hate your body, I asked her. God wants you to feel uncomfortable and unclean during a time that’s totally natural? God wants you to be a fucking leper?

She shook her head at me. You don’t understand, she said, looking away, and I guess I don’t.

I guess I don’t even want to.

Her husband, who walks around in a black coat, white shirt, black pants, and a long beard every day, aside from working in the synagogue, doing Rabbi stuff on Friday nights and Saturdays, professionally studies the old testament. He goes to a yeshiva, a place where holy men get together to sit and study the Torah up close, all day. Women can’t even go inside.

My dad used to call guys like him a drain on our economy- he’d get so angry, claiming his taxes were being spent on supporting people who were too lazy to get real jobs. His favourite example was Rashi, a famous Rabbi in Jewish history who wrote biblical commentary. Even he had a job as a winemaker, he’d snap, banging his hands down on the table as he talked.

Now all he can do is sing Reuven’s praises. He’s happy to support them, he says. They’re performing a mitzvah, a holy deed. They are continuing the Jewish race, protecting Israelis by increasing our population. Gotta keep our numbers up, he says, and he’s serious.

How do you argue with that kind of logic? You can’t. I’d lose, so I don’t even bother.

Reuven didn’t have to go to the army, because yeshiva guys like him often get a free pass. Neither did my sister, who did national service, where she volunteered at a hospital in Jerusalem for a year instead.

I don’t bother to give my opinion on the unfairness of that either. I keep it to myself, try not to think about it in case it actually kills me.

I started breaking the laws of Shabbat, the Sabbath, when I was fourteen. I’d skip Friday night dinners to go to dance parties in Tel Aviv, sneak out by saying I was staying over at a friend’s, someone who lived down the street. When I got my first car, before the army, when I was eighteen, I’d have to park it around the corner on Friday nights or Saturdays so they’d think I walked home from wherever I came from. According to the Sabbath laws, any work activity, including driving, was strictly forbidden.

I broke the rules, but I started out small. The first time I did it, I remember expecting a bolt of lightning to shoot out of the sky and kill me, and then, when it didn’t, I wanted to test it. I wanted to see how far I could go before God or my parents would smite me, wanted to see how hard I could push. There was no joy in my house growing up and I was determined to find some, somewhere. I’d stumble in on a Friday night, hair smelling like weed, jacket or t shirt like cigarette smoke, lips and tongue red wine soaked.

Nothing bad ever really happened. I got good at tuning out the yelling.

Satlan, my sister used to hiss at me, when I passed her door. Stoner.

My sister never rebelled, not even once. She never wanted to be anything except a more extreme version of what my parents wanted her to be.

I got my first tattoo after the army. It’s a kivsa shchora, a black sheep, on my right hip. I try to wear it proudly. My first boyfriend came with me to get it. He let me squeeze his hand when the needle went in, and kick his foot every time I thought the pain would kill me. I didn’t bruise him though. I didn’t leave a mark. After we broke up I backpacked through Europe for eight months, and ended up in the UK. I was staying with an Israeli friend in a council flat, living on 10 pence instant noodles when my dad called. He offered to pay for a ticket home, and when I said no, he offered to send me to Toronto, to stay with a cousin of his. He thought his cousins could set me straight, but I only lasted two months at Bathurst and Lawrence before moving to Queen St. I didn’t know a place could have so much personality- from the artists to the street punks who offer to squeegee your car, to the wooden poles covered with thousands of stapled flyers of underground bands, to the musicians, to the Saturday street performers, bizarro puppets and mimes, to the crystal ball and palm readers to street painters selling their art on the sidewalks to the record stores and tourists and teenage kids seeing downtown for the first time- I had no idea one street could be so full of arts and culture and individuality. I’ve always loved it here.

From the moment I saw it for the first time, I knew I’d finally found it. I was home.

Our next door neighbour is from Nova Scotia. I thought I could hear it when she talked, the way she said somewheres, as in, if you’ve got somewheres else to be, the way she said down home about her hometown. Where you from, I finally asked her this morning. Bridgewater, she said, you know, Lunenburg County. No shit, I said. Beautiful up there. She nodded.

My mom is crazy about the South Shore. She always wanted to get rich and have a cottage up on Mahone Bay. Gorgeous. Yeah, she said, it really is. Boring though, when you’re a teenager.

Yeah, I hear that, I said. I’m from the Valley, from Kentville, in King’s County. Oh I know Kentville, she said. I love the Apple Blossom Festival. You sound like a tourist, I teased her. What are you, a fan of the parade or something? I always hated that stuff growing up, so cheesy. She slapped my arm, but gently. Yeah, but it’s fun. The Valley is beautiful in the fall. Yeah, I guess so, I said.

Holy Shit, you know, I think you’re the first person I’ve met out here from home. She smiled. You too.

She had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. She kind of looked like she was from the country. She was curvy, with big blue eyes and blond hair. She had big breasts and wore a tight shirt and jean shirts that looked like cut offs, all ripped and worn. She kind of looked like a sexy farmer’s daughter or something, the kind of girl I never would’ve looked at twice growing up, who suddenly seemed so hot to me right then. I leaned in towards her. She had shiny lip glossy lips.

I gotta go soon, she said. My husband is picking me up soon.

Husband? My voice actually squeaked a little as I said the word.

Yeah. I met him when I was living out west, in Calgary. He’s from Ontario. He wanted to try our luck in an even bigger city. I hate it here.

I sighed. Me too, I find myself saying. I really hate it here sometimes too.

Is the girl you live with, the one with the flowing skirts, your wife?

I shuddered. No, God, no, I said, before I could stop myself.

She laughed. She touched the side of my face with her rough fingers. You’ll meet the right person someday, she said.

Yeah, I said to her, thanks. Nice talking to you.

The thing is, I do love Nicki. But can you really love someone you’re always fighting with, that’s always infuriating you, and driving you crazy?

I want to tell her about my past so badly, want to tell her what happened, how the beat the shit out of a guy I barely knew, how I broke his back and put him in a chair, and ruined his life. I want to tell her how I wake up sweating at night about it, ten years later. I want to tell her how badly I want it to be ok, how I want the guy to forgive me, even though he shouldn’t, how I want to forgive myself most of all.

I want to tell her how I can’t travel with her, like she wants. She talks about travel all the time, and I can’t leave the country. Sometimes, when things are good, I want to take her back home with me,

to see my town, and the other towns around it. I want to show her where I came from, how beautiful it is. I want to show her everything, and really tell her the stuff that matters about me.

I miss Nova Scotia really bad sometimes, the open spaces, the pines and spruces, the ocean.

I miss seeing apples in the fall, rows of trees with tiny flashes of red and yellow peeking through leaves. I miss the glacial beauty in winter- frozen streams and brooks with ice frozen in cracked ovals that looks like agate. Even the animals are in your face in Toronto- the raccoons are huge and aggressive, totally not afraid of you. They look you in the eye and hiss, like they know they’re the ones in control. It’s fucked up, I’ve never seen anything like it. The squirrels are big and black or grey, and mangy.

I miss camping and seeing water everywhere I look and knowing where I’m going all the time, when I drive.

There’s things I love about Toronto-the way everything is open twenty four hours, the way if there’s anything you want in the world, you can find it, the way you can just grab a cab or buy a cd or dvd or jewellery or clothes or anything off the street, from some vendor who’s always there, the way everything is cheaper here. In so many ways, life is easier and more exciting.

But if I’m honest, what I like the most about Toronto is the anonymity. I love the way people don’t know me here, I love the fact that I can walk down the street or into my building or onto the subway with no one hassling me, or thinking I’m being rude for not making eye contact or saying hi. I like that I do whatever I feel like doing here- that I can be whoever I want, and no one really cares.

That’s the hardest part about being with Nicki- she always wants to know what I think or feel about everything- she wants to know me, things about me that I don’t feel comfortable or just don’t feel like sharing. I want to be with her, but I want to be able to take my space when I feel like it. She doesn’t know it, but I’m doing it to protect her. I know her, and there’s no way she’d be able to deal with what I’d have to tell her. She doesn’t know it, but I’m doing it for her own good, for both of our good.

It’s better this way, trust me. In every way, it’s easier.

The first time I saw her, I noticed how light she was on her feet. She’s tall, almost my height, and lean.

Her feet did this skipping thing across the room, flip flopping gracefully, soundlessly. She was wearing this knee length skirt, and the first thing I saw was her tanned legs, her thin but delicately muscular calves. She was wearing a tank top that showed off her arms and shoulders, toned too. I wondered if she was one of those girls who lived at the gym, who drank protein shakes and only ate salad.

She had nice lips, perfectly bow shaped like a cartoon character. She wore no make up. She had sea grey eyes. When she started speaking, I tried to place her accent. Are you Scottish, I asked her eventually.

She laughed. I’m South African, she said. I had a friend from South Africa in Brazil, I told her. He sounded different to you. She nodded. I’m Afrikaans. What kind of language is it, I asked her. Is it like Swahili?

She rolled her eyes, and laughed. No. It comes from Dutch, mixed with a bit of English, maybe a little German, a little French. Mostly Dutch though. Is that your background, I asked her. She nodded. Some of my family’s originally Dutch. Some are Belgian, Flemish. It’s a mix. How do you pronounce your last name, I asked her, looking at her resume. Anika Van Zyl. The V in Afrikaans is like F in English, the Z is like S. Fun Sale, she said, you pronounce it Fun Sale. I smiled. You’re funny, I told her. I’m serious, she said, but she was smiling. Where are you from in Brazil? Are you from Rio de Janeiro? I rolled my eyes at her and laughed. No, I’m from the South East, a small city called Belo Horizonte. It means beautiful horizon.

She nodded. Where are you from in South Africa? Cape Town, she said, have you been? No, but I hear it’s beautiful. It is, she said. A lot of crime though. Brazil too, I said. She nodded again. I’ve heard.

We have a lot to talk about, I told her. I asked her what shifts she wanted, what hours she could work, what the job involved. She said it sounded good, and I gave her the job. She was jumpy, I remember that too. I reached out to touch her shoulder, her arm, her skin looked so tawny and smooth. She flinched, and I was surprised. It was the kind of fool proof hitting on a girl, but not hitting on her that almost always worked. Maybe she’s the kind of girl that makes you work for it, I remember thinking. I remember wondering if she did gymnastics or yoga, if she was flexible. She looked it.

I told her she could start tomorrow. She flashed me a huge smile. She glided over to me, shook my hand, held on a few extra seconds. I gave her hand a squeeze. Her arm was shaking a little. She’s nervous, I realized. On her way out, she looked back at me, and held my gaze for at least a minute or two before she kept walking. That’s what I remember about meeting her most: that last look, that lingering that didn’t mean to linger, that knew better but couldn’t help itself. There’s something about her, I remember thinking, a little mysterious, a little different. I remember feeling something for her that I hadn’t felt about any woman, or any person in a long time. She’s interesting, I remember thinking.

I tried to absorb the feeling for as long as I could before going back to work.

I tried not think about it. Feelings throw everything off.

Last night I dreamed we had a daughter.

Her face was palm sized, her amber hair crackled with red heat, her skin was soft and translucent.

She could fit into doll’s clothing, our living doll, she could wear the navy blue and green checked sailor dress that belonged to a Madame Alexander doll I had as a kid. Her limbs were thin and fragile, her elbows knobby. I sat her on a chair, in between my twin plastic dolls, their eyes beady, hers looking soft like his. She had his focused stare, the slight smile around the corner of his lips. She was radiant. She’d look at me and my heart would crack. I couldn’t believe she was mine, ours.

Let’s give her a real English name, I said to Dez, like Elizabeth or Diana. I want her to feel like a queen or princess. Elizabeth is perfect, he said, my sister’s name is Liz. He was happy. He kissed her and he then me on the top of my head and went off to the bar to work. I was by myself. She was sitting there, playing with one of the dolls.

I turned around for a second, stared out the window, watched a cardinal hop from one branch to another on a tree. I heard a crash, watched as she hit the floor, lunged for her but wasn’t fast enough. Her face hit the marble and cracked like porcelain into tiny, sharp slivers. I had to help her, she didn’t make a sound, not a sound, I had tell Dez, I had to clean up the mess, I was so confused. I picked up the pieces, her dress, crying, drove us to the hospital. The doctor told me that I’d done it on purpose, that I hadn’t loved her, hadn’t appreciated her enough. As punishment he cut open my uterus, wanted to examine it up close, figure out what was wrong with me. Clouds of dust poured out of me, filled the room til I was coughing, choking.

Your body is like a kiln, he told me, firing up bits of dust and water, instead of flesh and blood. Elizabeth was made of clay and bones. She was fragile, and she died. You couldn’t take care of her. You can’t have children, Anika. Your body is messed up. You’re not human.

I feel myself sweating, water pouring down my temples to the sides of my face. I’m about to have a panic attack, to run screaming out of the room, when I wake up with a jolt.

I feel my forehead, and my face, but it’s bone dry.

I go to the kitchen, fumble in the dark for my cigarettes, a bottle of red wine. I also grab what’s left of the nutella, and a spoon. I turn on the tv. It’s 2:36am. I know I can’t go back to sleep now. I wouldn’t dare to try to.

At 6:00 am I’m lying on my back, on the couch. I try to sleep. I close my eyes, think of comforting things.

I think of swimming in my parents pool as a kid. I think of my sister, of my dogs. I think of my mom.

I sing to myself, that song from Mary Poppins, that she sings to the kids to get them to fall asleep. It always worked for me when I was little, to sing it to myself, that Stay Awake song. It’s all about reverse psychology- in an incredibly soothing voice, she encouraged them not to try to sleep, and they drifted off halfway through. It used to work on me too.

When I finally drift off, I dream about another baby, about having a fat baby boy. A boy who loves to laugh and eat and sleep. He’s perfect and healthy. We adore him. Dez buys him a green, blue, yellow and white baby grower, the colors of Brazil’s soccer team. He’s going to be a football player, he says, got to get him into it now. He buys him a plush black and white mini ball to play with, softly passes it to him.

He’s so loving, so devoted, he makes my heart melt. One day we’re standing in the kitchen, the baby’s face smeared with mushed banana, and Dez hands him to me, says it’s my turn to change his diaper.

I take him gently, hold him by the waist, but he tries to get away, crawl away from me. It doesn’t feel natural, I have to put him down, he wiggles and I forget, forget to support his head, slide on the wet tiles and I drop him. He hits the floor, head first, his skull dented, screaming, he’s screaming so loudly. Dez lets out a cry that could’ve come out of a wounded animal, and I wake up before he can tell me what damage I’ve done. Before anyone has a chance to tell me that I’ve ruined everything.

That I’ll never be a parent. That I’m a monster.

And that I’ve let Dez down. That’s what might hurt most, more than anything.

I broke his heart by not telling him. I have no idea how to protect him.

I have no idea how to love the person I thought I loved the most.

I have no idea what to do with the guilt I’m feeling.

I think a lot about what I want to wear to the rally. I wear baggy clothes, cargo pants and a black sweater. I want to blend in. I wear a scarf around my neck that I bought in Shuk Hacarmel, the Carmel Market in Tel Aviv that looks vaguely like a keffiyeh, a Palestinian scarf. My mother eyed me suspiciously when I bought it, but it was just about fashion for me then. I hadn’t thought about it all.

If people ask me where I’m from, I don’t know what I’ll tell them. People have mistaken me for being French before, for the way we roll our r’s in Israel, so maybe that’s what I’ll say. I google France, read about the wine and cheese and music. I decide to say I’m from Bordeaux. It seems safer than saying I’m from Paris, because I’ve never been, and if other people have, and ask me questions, I’ll look like an idiot. I figure there’ll be less chance of running into people that know Bordeaux well, or at least that’s what I hope. I don’t want to tell people where I’m from unless I’m sure that they won’t judge me.

I want them to see that I’m trying, because I am. I really want to figure it all out.

When I get there, I meet a bunch of Canadians, university students, girls and guys.

They’re so eager, giving me statistics, showing me internet photos of injured kids, apartment buildings smashed to rubble. The Israelis violate basic human rights, a guy says, his eyes wet, and it’s hard to disagree. He shows me a picture of a little girl, bleeding to death on the ground while her family waits in vain for an ambulance. I think of the Hebrew expression ‘ayom venora’, meaning truly terrible, a phrase that comes from the bible. It never felt more apt. The sky is dark in the photo. It looks like it might rain blood.

I meet girls around my age from Saudi Arabia and Egypt and Syria. I meet a girl from Qalqilia, a Palestinian city so close to my town, I try not to laugh. When we worry about suicide bombers making their way in, it’s through her city. It’s a surreal moment. Her name is Doa, and she has huge brown eyes. She looks so innocent. Her whole body is covered except her hands and face. Her expression is serene. I suddenly want to hug her, want to be her friend. When they ask me what religion I am, I find myself saying I’m Christian. I don’t mean to lie, the words are out before I can stop myself. They don’t ask me any more about it than that. They tell me instead about Islam, about finding time to pray five times a day, about not being objectified by random guys on the street because they’re all covered up. I have to admit that it sounds good. Israeli guys hit on anyone- it’s not even a compliment. Seriously, all you have to have in Israel is a pulse. I met a Jewish girl in Canada who told me she went to Israel knowing only two Hebrew expressions: “ Ani Nesua” I’m married, for the ones who wouldn’t leave her alone, and ‘Ani lo loveshet tachtonim”, I’m not wearing any underwear, in case she ever needed any help with anything. Apparently, she didn’t have to lift her suitcase the entire time she was there. I can’t imagine what it would be like not to be harassed everywhere you go- from the kiosk to the supermarket to the coffee shop. It might be nice.

The men in Egypt are really respectful to woman, one girl tells me. They hold open doors, they’re polite.

I try to imagine what that’s like.

Another girl, Ruba, tells me about Eid Hudge, the huge holiday celebration that happens in Mecca, where she’s from. Her eyes light up. Millions of Muslims from all over the world come, she says. It’s overwhelmingly holy. You feel so connected to everyone. It’s incredible.

I listen, amazed that I could have gone this long without knowing anything about any of it.

There are more than one billion of us, one of them tells me. I’m incredulous. I want to learn.

We walk, march and talk for what feels like hours, and at the same time, mere seconds. I have an amazing time.

At the end of the day, I met a guy, Ruba’s brother. He’s tall, about 6”3, with an afro.

He wears tight, bright red pants, and a yellow t shirt. He looks like a cartoon hero. I smile at him.

They’re from Saudi Arabia. Their father is a friend of the king’s. They’ve travelled the world, but he’s never been to Bordeaux. Or Israel, I bet. He’s incredibly charismatic. He asks me on a date, and when I tell him about Lukas, he insists, saying I should join him and some of his friends. I still want to see you, he says, but we’ll be with a lot of people. I smile. Ok, I find myself saying. I give him my number, and shake my head, astounded by his confidence.

I wonder what my mother would say if she knew.

I wonder what he would say if he knew I was Israeli.

I wonder if I’ll be able to tell him.

Mostly, I wonder what Lukas will think when he hears about all of this.

We walk twenty minutes, north on Queen til we get to his side street. It’s a Tuesday night in February, and it’s funeral dead, even though it’s only 12:00. Even the homeless people aren’t out.

Ice and salt crunch under our shoes. I’m not wearing gloves my hands are turning red.

After a few blocks I grab his hand, and he surprises me by squeezing mine back and tucking it into his pocket. I feel my face break out into a smile, my cheeks cracking in the cold. It’s a perfect moment.

His house is bigger than I expect, not huge, but comfortable, with three floors.

I rent my basement out to friends, he says. They have a separate entrance, on the side.

He gives me a quick mini tour of the main floor, then takes me up to his bedroom.

His sheets are black and his blinds are lipstick red. We sit down on the bed.

There are books piled up on the sides of his bed, business textbooks and bestsellers. He is taking a business course two mornings a week at George Brown, one night, Wednesdays.

I like to highlight, he says, pointing to a pile of neon pink and yellow pens. You’re cute, I say, and he kisses me. I had no idea, this is a whole different side of you. You’re so serious.

There’s a lot you don’t know about me, he says, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.

I like those post it note things, marking what pages I have to read in different colors, I say.

He laughs. Who’s the serious student now?

I sigh. I’m trying. It’s hard, but I’m trying. I’m trying to get something out of it. It’s just, I can’t believe I’m here sometimes, you know? Here in Canada, at university, studying things I never wanted to study, not dancing. And it’s so frustrating- I hate my classes, they’re huge, I never know what’s going on, no one cares if I go or not. If I don’t understand, I mean, you think I’m going to put my hand up in a class of three hundred people? Or if I disagree with a point, which by the way, I do all the time in my communications class. That professor is a doos, or as they say in Canada, a douche.

He laughs. God, I hated school when I was younger. I couldn’t wait to be done, to get out, to live life. I nod. I’m taking these courses because I have to now, but between you and me, An, I wish I didn’t.

I wish I just knew all this stuff naturally, you know? I hate having to work this hard. He gets up, walks over to his vinyl player, pulls out a Ramones album. I grin, close my eyes as the chords to I Don’t Want To Grow Up starts to play.

I pull him close to me, start kissing him. You’re perfect I tell him, as he starts unbuttoning my shirt.

He kisses my neck, unbuckles my belt, unzips my jeans, then stops, looks up at me.

I almost never bring girls here, he says. He looks nervous. All I hear in my head is the word almost.

I wonder who else he’s had here, but I try not to think about it. I feel special, I say, try to kiss him again.

He moves away. I don’t know if I’m ready for this, he says. I haven’t had a girlfriend in years.

Soon you’ll want to come over all the time, be together all the time, be official, and I don’t know if I want that. I see the way you look at me, An. I see what you want sometimes, and I don’t know if I want it.

I look at him. I’m sick of lying, to him and to myself.

I think I do want to see you everyday, Dez. I love talking to you and being with you. I think you might be the best person I’ve met here.

Why do you like me so much, he spits, I don’t like it, I don’t want you to, it adds this extra level of stress that I don’t want, that I never wanted to my life. I was trying to avoid all of this, he says, gesturing wildly to himself, to me, in circles to the air around us.

I do up my jeans, get up to leave, grab my jacket from the floor. I like you, and I pause for second, try to organize my thoughts, try to get it out. I like you because sometimes when we connect, when I say something weird or we’re talking about something we both know about it, and you understand me, I mean really understand, it makes me feel less alone for a second. I stare at my hands, at the thin curving lines in my palms. I say the next part quietly, not sure if he hears me. It makes me feel like it’s possible for me to be happy, does that make sense?

I don’t look up at him, just grab my bag, slip into my shoes, and close the door behind me.

It’s just this kind of understanding that he spends his life trying to avoid.

I understand now.

I’m crying as I walk down his driveway, nearly tripping on my heels, on the black ice.

I slide and try not to fall. When I get to my street, I reach into my pocket for my keys and realize that I’ve left my keys on his bedside table. I didn’t want to get jabbed in the thigh when we fooled around.

I don’t want to, but I don’t know if my roommate’s home, so I call him.

He apologizes as soon as I say hello. I just don’t know what I want, if I’m ready for this, he says.

I like you though. I like you, and it scares me.

He says he’ll bring my keys in a few minutes, and I stand outside, shivering.

He puts his arms around me, when he sees me, says he’s worried I’ll get frost bite, offers to come in and make me tea. I smile, show him how to make rooibos, South African tea, and he says he’ll have some too. I like it, he says, and I’m sorry. He kisses me, tells me he likes me, and he’s sorry, and asks me if I can give him more time. I’ll try, I say, and I mean it, because I want to, I want to understand him, I want to try to give him what he needs. Waiting is the worst thing though. I wonder how long I’ll be able to wait, how long he’ll want me to, how long I’ll want to. He falls asleep right after, with his arm around me.

I sleep badly, watch him sleep, stare at the ceiling.

I really do like you, he tells me, when he leaves the next morning. I want to believe him. I decide to try to, at least for now. I’m going to try accept everything the way it is, this week.

Nicki keeps asking me about my views on politics. She brings me newspaper articles, reads things online that she tries to get me to read. Today she showed me a translated article from Ha’aretz, her country’s leftist paper. Look at the way we’ve mistreated them, she says, passion making her voice crack. It’s all very confusing. I don’t have the background, even a basic understanding of it. I can tell I’m frustrating her, standing there, shrugging, saying nothing. She’s always trying to extract my opinion, get to what I really think about things. I don’t know how to tell her this, but politics don’t mean a whole lot to me.

My family never discussed politics, they just all voted separately, and that was that.

My mom used to vote Liberal, as far as I remember. It was just the easy thing to do, if you were going to vote, the most neutral choice. My stepdad voted Conservative, because they always promised to spend the most on the military. Good solid values, he’d say, the day after. They’re the only ones with their priorities in order. My brother, when he studied at NSCC, the technical college down in Halifax, voted NDP cause they promised to lower tuition fees. He started voting for the Green Party when he graduated. He has his own landscaping company, all the work he does is earth friendly. Recycling is his politics now. It’s all so ridiculous and boring and self serving. Some of Nicki’s artist friends that she met at work talked to her about how bad the Conservative government is, how they want to cancel arts funding and how they want to protest. She thinks it’s fantastic. Why can’t you care that much, she asks me. What would it take to get you to enter this world with me?

I shrug, I don’t say anything. I don’t want to lie to her. I don’t want to pretend to believe in anything more than I really do, especially something that feels so out of my control. You put your name on a piece of paper, you check a box or put an x next to something, you put time and thought into your choice, and it doesn’t turn out the way it’s supposed to anyway. It never does. Protests seem like a waste of time to me too, more about looking like and acting like you care than making any kind of difference.

I know that when Nicki goes to these protests, like the one about Gaza the other day, that she’s sincere.

Nicki’s heart is always in the right place- it’s just that it all seems like an incredible waste of energy. She looks deflated when I say this, looks like she’s going to cry. She says I’m not being supportive when I refuse to go to these things with her, even though I listen to her talk about it for hours. It’s not that I don’t care about what’s important to her- I do.

It’s just that I don’t get why being in a relationship means not being able to be yourself anymore-why it means letting go of what you really believe or feel in the name of taking care of someone else.

I could be supportive, and a liar, or myself, and an asshole. What do I choose? I have no idea.

All I know is I’m tired of letting her down, I’m tired of walking around feeling like shit, feeling like, in every way I’m not good enough for her. She’s got a heart big enough to want to save the world- this huge, generous beating organ. Mine is tiny and shrivelled and barely beating, just focused on survival.

We’re not the same her and me, and she’s only beginning to see it now.

Last night she came home from work talking about Anika, the South African girl she works with.

She was telling her all about the corrupt government there-how millions of their currency there, Rands they’re called apparently- disappear each year, and then the politicians appear, driving fancy cars, wearing designer clothes. The crime gets worse, she told her. They have the highest murder rates in the world, not to mention rape and HIV. She told Nicki about the time she was attacked in her own house, how guys broke in and tied her up and raped her. It was like 7:00 at night or something. Her parents didn’t know what to do with her after that, so they bundled her up, packaged her and sent her here.

Nicki hadn’t known about any of this before. I don’t understand, she said, tears forming in her eyes, what’s wrong with the world. I don’t know what to tell her. It’s fucked, I tell her. The world is fucked.

I don’t know what else to say. People just fucking live their lives here, she said. They go to Queen st, go to work, go home, go to work, get laid, worry about stupid shit like whether their partner actually loves them- meantime the world is fucking falling apart- and their lives just go on. You know? People like Anika get raped, her friend gets gang raped by three guys just for going to a party on a Saturday night, her friend gets mugged and beaten up just for using a bank machine- and the world just keeps on turning. Soldiers in Israel get tortured and killed, innocent Israeli and Palestinian kids get blown to shit for eating pizza on the patio of a restaurant, or going to the fucking market, or walking down the street, and we’re here in Toronto, she’s hysterical now, crying, shaking- trying to decide between buying a Black Flag or Joy Division t shirt at an overpriced music store, between a soy latte or a fucking bubble tea.

There is a snot bubble forming in her nose as she says this, and I try not to laugh, I try but I fail, and she is angry, she’s still crying, she starts flailing her arms, screaming, swearing, don’t laugh at me, don’t fucking laugh at me, you never understand anything, she’s yelling, yelling in Hebrew now, I don’t know what she’s saying, but she’s so angry, she pushes me, she’s surprisingly strong, she pushes me, and her leg makes contact with my shin. She kicked me, she kicked me, and it hurts, pushes me again, kicks me again, slaps me near my face, and that’s it, I’ve had it. I hit her back, I aim for her shoulder, want to get a good punch in, but she ducks, and I miss, I sock her in the jaw. She crumples on the floor, she’s quiet, holding her face, looking at me with huge eyes, and all I can think is, I hit my girlfriend, dear god, I hit my girlfriend. She is backing away from me, into the kitchen, I’m standing dazed in the living room. She has an ice pack held up to her chin, the skin is already getting darker. When I hit her it didn’t feel that hard, I mean, I’m capable of a lot more, it dawns on me as I watch her, but I guess you never know.

We don’t talk for what feels like hours. Later that night, she gets into bed with me, she talks to me again, I put my arms around her, I say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, a million times. It’s ok, she says. I deserve it, I hit you first. You don’t deserve it, I say, but she looks me in the eye, all serious, like she means it.

Today, she stared into the mirror, saw the purple lines forming on her chin, and said,

I saw this movie, at work on a Tuesday, you know how they show movies sometimes, upstairs, about a guy who hits a girl, during, you know, and she likes it, she asks for it, it could be kind of fun, maybe?

Maybe later, tonight, when we’re messing around, you could hit me, maybe somewhere people can’t see, but it could be fun. Her eyes are all lit up, she’s staring at me, smiling a little, she’s serious I think.

I can’t answer her. I’m backing away, walking backwards til I reach the door, til I reach my coat. I grab it, check my wallet’s in my back pocket, and run, run, run, up the street, down Queen, away from her.

She’s not following me. I keep running though, finding it hard to breathe, sweating. When I get to the corner of Queen and Bathurst I collapse, sit down in the dirty snow that’s piled up.

I put my hand on my face and realize that I’ve been crying. She has no idea who she’s dealing with.

She has no idea that I once hit someone so hard that I paralyzed him, put him in a chair, ruined his life.

I’m a fucking psychopath, I want to tell her. You don’t even know what I’m capable of. You want to share my world so badly you’ll even let me hit you during sex, for fuck’s sake, you’ll even ask me to. I don’t deserve you, I shouldn’t be anywhere near you, unless violence and fucked up shit really does turn you on, unless you could hear the terrible things I’ve done and accept them, and forgive me. Cause that’s what I want more than anything, you know? To be forgiven. To tell you what I did, and for it to be ok. For it to be all be in the fucking past. That’s what I want more than anything.

I think later, tonight, or tomorrow, I’m going to tell her. I think I have to now, when I can face her again. When I can look her in the eye. I hope she can forgive me. I hope more than anything that she’ll still want to be with me, knowing what kind of person I really am.

I was at a coffee place at Queen and Bathurst today when I saw a sign about a rally at Queen’s Park.

It was to protest the genocide in Gaza. They quoted Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky, people I admire and respect who compared it to Apartheid in South Africa or the Holocaust.

I felt a deep pit of shame forming in my stomach. I really wanted to go.

I’d been raised my whole life to think of the Arabs in Israel as the enemy, to fear them bombing the shit out of us. I’d had my car randomly checked at security points, had my handbag emptied at mall entrances to check for weapons. I’d learned to fire a gun in basic army training. I’d learned to put on and breathe in a gas mask from the time that I was ten. I’d learned to run down to the bomb shelter in the basement of my building in thirty seconds or less, and I lived on the fifth floor.

I’d lived a life based in fear, and if you’re afraid and feel threatened, you instinctively strike back.

But what if I’d been wrong? What if most of them just wanted peace? Away from Israeli propaganda for the last few years, I’d been able to really think about everything for the first time.

I’d watched the attacks on Gaza on Canadian tv, horrified to see little kids get killed, and hospitals get blown to shit. There was blood and bits of skin everywhere the cameras panned- like the bus bombings or pizza parlour bombings in Jerusalem but on a way bigger scale. We have the army power, the soldier power that they don’t have. I cried when I watched it, saw the scenes in my nightmares. That’s what I fought in the army for? That’s the kind of victory my people are killing for?

In South Tel Aviv, in Florentine, before I left, I saw that someone spray painted the words “ Am Yisrael Hai” The nation of Israel lives. Someone else, in a different color ink, added ‘alim’ to the word ‘hai’ so it now reads The nation of Israel are soldiers.

And for what? What is the point of any of it? So we can inflict suffering on a people as scared and innocent and brainwashed and fucked up and as possessive of the land and culture as we are?

I want to go- I want to see who the people are who go to these things. I want to talk to them and understand things a little bit better. I want an outlet for this anger, these feelings I’ve been shoving down and ignoring for so long. I want to understand myself, why I did things for so long that I didn’t agree with or believe in.

I had refusenik friends, or I had friends of friends- people who refused on principle to go to the army.

The most popular way is to pretend to be crazy. I knew a guy who dropped acid before an army interview, and another guy, friend of a friend who jumped through the army psychiatrist’s ground floor window in the middle of the interview. He landed in a bush, brushed himself off, and left. Needless to say the army didn’t want him. I knew a girl who told the shrink she heard planes flying over her parents house at night and were terrified that they’d crash into her bedroom. She gets points for creativity for sure. I have another friend, Neta, who tried to convince them that she was opposed to the army for moral reasons. Apparently, they grilled her three times in a tiny room, asked her so many questions that she was forced to give up and plead insanity to get out of it.

My parents refused to let me do it on the grounds that I’d never get a job, cause my identity card would track this information, and I’d be making my own life so difficult. So like an idiot, I went along with it anyway. I was technically from a religious enough family to get out of it, religious women in Israel get to do a year of volunteering called National Service instead, but my family wouldn’t have it. I hadn’t been near a synagogue in years, so I guess they thought it would straighten me out or something. My dad went on and on about what an honour it is to fight for Israel, my mom was relieved that I’d be mostly in an office on an army base near Tel Aviv. Being in intelligence, I wasn’t allowed to talk about my job at the time and I guess I never have. Still, I wonder now why I did it, and if I did the right thing.

I wonder how my life would be now if I hadn’t gone. Would I be happier with myself?

I want to go home one day and live in a country that’s not always at war with itself.

In the beginning he warns me against being with him. After we sleep together for the first time he says,

I didn’t want to be this guy, I didn’t want to do this because I’m fucked up. I’ll let you down, I’ll say I’ll call you but I won’t. He traces my lips as he says this with the backs of his fingers. I’m still lying in the bed, twisted in the sheets, as he stands already dressed, over me. He doesn’t sound particularly remorseful, or even guilty, just matter of fact. His voice is soft, playful. He cracks a small smile, like why you gotta like the guys who fuck you over? Why don’t you want to be with a nice guy?

Guys who call when they say they will are boring.

I don’t want a guy who’ll take me to the movies and hold my hand and buy me presents. I’ve had guys like that, and I found it all to be overrated.

I want a guy who knows how to have fun, a guy who’ll take me to the bedroom and rock my world.

The kind of guy who’ll expand my horizons instead of making me feel like the world is caving in on me.

I want a guy who’ll fuck me, who’ll teach me new things. A guy who’ll hurt me, because God, I am ready to hurt.

I just want to really feel, is that too much to ask?

You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, he tells me.

You don’t know who you got yourself into, I say, and he laughs.

That’s pretty clever, he says, and gives me a kiss that’s long and full of tongue and deep in my throat, to the tips of my teeth. I try not to convulse with pleasure. For once in my life I try to play it cool.

I won’t call you later, he says on his way out.

But I might just call you tomorrow. I like sexy South African girls who drink a lot of whiskey.

A wave of electricity pulses through me. I lie on my back in the bed for hours, thinking about him, trying to wipe the smile off my face. When he calls the next day at 5:00, I’m surprised. I thought there’d be more of a chase than this. I can’t stop giggling, like a fourteen year old smoking weed for the first time.

I think I’m going to vomit. It’s a short conversation, maybe ten minutes. What are we going to do about work, he asks me at the end of the conversation. I realize I have no idea.

We spend that night at work with him basically ignoring me, flirting with every girl that walks in, taking phone numbers on balled napkins. One girl even writes hers on his hands. He looks at me and shrugs, like, I told you so. What did you expect. Like, duh. I thought you were smarter than that.

Nicki, a girl I work with, is equally sympathetic. He’s not boyfriend material, she tells me flatly, in the bathroom. What did you expect from a guy like that? I mean, he’s nice, but he’s, well, he’s Dez.

What were you thinking?

How can I explain to her how much he excites me? That he’s made me feel alive for the first time since I

got to Canada? He’s stimulating, I say, he’s a smart guy. We connect.

She looks at me blankly. Ok, she says, but is it worth it? Is it worth this?

Her relationship, from the looks of it, is nothing but stable. He’s a nice, boring guy. She wouldn’t understand, she really wouldn’t.

I send him a text from across the room, knowing he checks it all night. I write: Going home early, not feeling well. Seems like you’re managing ok anyway. Call me if you need anything, otherwise see you tomorrow at 6:00.

He shows up at my door at 3:00 am, knocking loudly, waking up my roommate who grunts and groans and is furious with me. He seems drunk. He picks me up off the floor and swings me around. I feel like I’m dreaming, like this can’t be my life. You’re not just an employee to me, he says.

No? It kind of seemed like it tonight. See, this is exactly what I told you would happen, and it’s happening already. I sigh. It’s true.

I look him in the eye, bite my lip, look away, then say. Ok, fine. I like you, Dez. I really do.

He looks at me. I like you too Anika.

Let’s just take it as it comes ok? Let’s just see what happens. Do you think you can do that? Is that ok?

Cause if not, I can go home now. He looks at me with puppy dog eyes.

No, I say, it’s ok, come in. It’s ok, really.

I lead him into the living room, onto our couch. We sit whispering until 5:00 am. He tells me a lot about himself, which is more interesting than talking about me. We go to my bedroom at 5:00 something, and he tells me he feels close to me. He takes my clothes off gently, kisses me softly, plunges into me softly

as I stand up against my wall. I try to be quiet, bite into his shoulder, trying to hold back screams.

We fall asleep, and he leaves by 10:00. I thought we did a great job of keeping it down until I see my roommate later in the day. She says, Jesus Christ, if you guys don’t learn how to keep it down, I swear to god I’m investing in ear plugs. You’re lucky the fucking neighbours didn’t hear you.

I grin like a moron, like a lottery ticket winner who can’t believe her luck.

I still can’t believe that this is my life. I can’t believe it’s been so easy.

For the longest time, he treated me like I was made of glass.

For all the talk about him womanizing, I made the first move, not him. He’d hug me for a long time after we’d talk, but he’d never kiss me.

It was always implied, something will happen, one day, in the distant future, but he never caused it to happen, never made a direct move. He’d hug me in a way that was sexy, hold me close to his body for five whole minutes, kiss my cheek, but never try to do more. It made me wonder if he was the kind of guy that made love, the kind that took his time, took you in with his eyes, undressed you slowly, instead of diving right into you, pawing you in the dark.

He touched my shoulder gently, let his hand linger there for a few seconds while he talked to me, and I did it, I grabbed him by the collar, and planted my lips on his. I’d been dying for him, aching for something to just happen already. He gave me the talk, a long time ago about how bad he’d be for me, bout how he’d never have any time for me, about how there was so much I didn’t know about him.

Mystery was ok, I decided, and so were problems, it’s not like I didn’t have any.

What could he possibly have to hide? I was filled with dread and fear and anxiety at first but then I waited so long that I became consumed with the conquest. I wanted to be with him so badly.

So I kissed him first. I kissed him like I was starving, like I was dying of thirst. We were in his car, then in his house, I ripped at his clothes, tore a button off his shirt, took everything off him before he finished taking my clothes off me. I told him I loved him and he moaned, stroked my hair as I lay on top of his sweaty chest when were done. I love you Dez, I thought, breathed the words into his neck as I looked up at him. He was starting to fall asleep. I knew he felt something or he wouldn’t have been there.

The way he treated me was different to what everyone said about him, different even to what my instincts told me about him. I didn’t trust him for a long time because I’d seen him. I’d seen him with other girls, seen him with different girls all the time. A girl who came into the bar one day even described him as a manwhore. But what can you do when you see a whole other side of a person, when you know the potential exists for them to be someone else, and you alone have the power to bring it out of them? He made me feel indescribably special.

I wondered if there’d be a girl who’d broken his heart, who’d made him not want to get close enough to be really intimate. I had to prove my devotion. I had to give him the chance to let his guard down, to maybe fall in love with me. I wanted to love him, I really did. I only hoped he’d let me. I only hoped he’d let me get close enough to him to really know him- to hear all the things he was hiding, and to tell him that it was ok. I wasn’t afraid of what he’d tell me. I had the feeling that no matter what it was I’d be able to take it, and still love him. I’d never felt this way about anyone before. It was exciting sometimes, but mostly it was terrifying.

When I was in the army, I had a boyfriend. He carried some bags for me from our base on a day off, and we started talking. We clicked in a way I didn’t expect. He loved the Simpsons and wanted to go to university right when he was done his service, instead of going to India and getting high like most of the guys I knew. He read feminist textbooks for fun. He was really into Betty Freidan, kept trying to get me to read her stuff with him. The thing was, we were actually from the same town. He dated one of my friends when we were in grade eleven. I don’t remember how it ended, but I remember him as being intimidatingly cool. He was always talking about bands I’d never heard of, so good at articulating and expressing his opinions that I was left staring at my shoes, nodding in agreement. I couldn’t believe it when he liked me.

He made me feel smarter than I’d ever felt, just being associated with him.

He wasn’t my type physically. He had huge muscles, arms that belong on a bouncer at a club. He scooped me up and lifted me off the ground on our first date and I squealed.

He made me feel like a fifties pinup, sexy and all woman, girly and delicate. He took charge of so many situations, was a man’s man. He taught me about smoking weed, and making a good drink. I’d come from a religious household, gone to a girl’s only school. I got drunk for the first time with him in his mom’s living room, laughing, trying not to scream, the neighbours, he kept saying, the neighbours can hear us, the ceiling spinning above our heads.

Ze Sof Haderech, I yelled, Israeli slang that literally means, the end of the road, but for some reason, is just what we say when things are really good. I couldn’t believe I’d waited this long to drink.

I felt so indescribably amazing. I lost my virginity to him that night, which I barely remember.

The next morning, he held my hair back as I vomited into his toilet, smoothed my face with the back of his hand, gave me aspirin and glass after glass of cold water.

He wanted to be a photographer, and took black and white photos of me whenever we had private moments, sometimes I was clothed, sometimes not, sometimes he took photos of my face or of my eyes. He made me feel like a god. I’d never gotten that kind of attention from a guy, didn’t know I could.

He dumped me for another girl after we finished our service, which made sense to me then because deep down I’d never felt good enough to be with him. He always resented how good I was with people, was always angry when I got along with strangers and somehow stole the spotlight from him.

He needed to be the star in every situation and I didn’t always let him. I wanted to be special too.

I hadn’t thought about him in a long time, but I got an email from him today telling me he was getting married. Rak Ratziti Lehagid lach, he wrote, I just wanted to tell you.

It felt like a punch to the gut, like those Basquiat paintings he’d show me in books, with the words Sucker Punch on them. I don’t know why it hurts so much, it’s been so long.

Veratiziti lehazmin otach,im at baaretez. Ze beod Chodsha’im. And I wanted to invite you, if you’re in Israel. It’s in two months from now.

I deleted the email without replying.

I decided to tell Lukas about it, cause he asked what was wrong, put his arm around me, said, I can tell when something’s eating you girlie.

I told him, and he pulled away, told me how his ex girlfriend who lives in Montreal is having some other guy’s baby. He had this faraway look on his face that I couldn’t read, a part of his life that he’ll never let me into, no matter how open I am with him.

He disappeared after that, said he needed to go for a walk, to clear his head, and I have no idea where he is. It’s been two hours, and I have no idea when he’s coming back.

It makes me feel more alone than anything has in my life. I don’t know what to do with myself when he does it, how to make the time pass. I don’t know how to control the waves of anxiety that wash over me. It makes me wish I remember what Amit taught me all those years ago about making drinks. It makes me wish we had a bar in our house, and I could be getting drunk for the first time, all joy and giddiness. I wish there was some kind of upside to the fact that Lukas has a whole other life that he doesn’t want to share with me.

Nicki always asks me what my life was like growing up like it’s fascinating to her, like she can’t comprehend it. It’ s not that I don’t want to tell her, it’s just that I don’t know what to say.

I grew up in the country, in Annapolis Valley. I lived on a farm as a kid, one that had been in my family for years. We had mostly crops but a few animals, some chickens, a couple of sheep, and when I was really young, I had a pet goat. Nicki loves hearing about that for some reason. His name was Max, and I raised from when he was little, picked him out myself. He was super loyal, followed me around everywhere I’d go. He was a big suck, loved attention, but especially from me. One time I went on a camping trip with some friends and their dads, was only gone for a few days, but my mom says he cried and wouldn’t eat the whole time I was away. He was better than a dog any day. He loved to be held, just like a puppy, and even when he got too big, he’d love if I tried to lift him up. He had thick white tufts of fur on the top of his head and on the back of his neck that he loved to have stroked. He was the best, my Maxie, and I think Nicki would’ve thought so too. When I had to give him away, the neighbours said he died of heartache, and I damn near did too. Seriously, I cried for that goat, and I was thirteen.

My parents got divorced when I was nine and by the time I was thirteen my mom had remarried a guy in the armed forces. We had to move around a lot- to the UK, to Germany, to the US.

Nicki thinks the army is cool even if she won’t admit. Her eyes light up when she talks about her time in the army in Israel, the friends she made, the bonding that happened there. She spent a lot of her time in an office, never really seeing any action. The way she describes her basic training makes it sound like summer camp- a bunch of girls her age from all over the country about to share in something exciting and unforgettable. Maybe that’s how they market it to people so they can get through it, or maybe that’s just Nicki, my Nicki, always smiling, always seeing the good in everything.

Military school was the fucking worst- everything was on a schedule, had to be precise, and done exactly the way they told you. There was zero room for any kind of individuality. I’ve always been bad at conforming, I was the class clown in elementary school, the weirdo who couldn’t focus but made people laugh. I got angrier and angrier, moving from place to place, hating how rigid it always was, not knowing what the place was like and what was cool there, who to be friends with or how long I’d have to be there. I exploded at a teacher one day, told her to fuck off, threw three books at her, and one of them hit her in the head. I refused to apologize and they expelled me. My stepdad sent me packing, sent me with a one way ticket back to the Valley to live with my grandfather. I haven’t talked to him or my mom in years. I’m probably dead as far as they’re concerned.

I met a girl down home who I went with, and lived with for a few years. She had a really open heart, and was funny and sarcastic. She wasn’t book smart but she kept me on my toes. She always knew how to keep me in line. She was younger, and she liked school about as much as I did, so neither of us exactly finished. I got my GED but she had about a grade eleven. We moved around a bit, first to Halifax, then to Montreal. I worked construction type of jobs, with a bit of weed dealing on the side, and she worked at Tim Horton’s or other coffee places.

We broke up in Montreal when she met a younger guy and cheated on me, then left me. As my grandma used to say, what a sin, although to be honest, things were falling apart anyway. I loved her so much. I would’ve done anything for her. I got in fights for her, beat up a guy for her, would’ve done anything to protect her.

Nicki doesn’t like hearing her name, so we don’t talk about her. I’m not in touch with her anyway, wouldn’t take her back for any reason. She has nothing to worry about, but still, it makes her jealous.

I know how that is, boy, do I know.

Before I met Nicki, I’d never known anyone that sophisticated or worldly. I’m always afraid that one day she’ll wake up and wonder what the hell she’s doing with me. Or worse, that she’ll figure out that it’s time for this particular adventure to end, before I’m ready for it to be over. I still want to live the fantasy for as long as I can.

The less Nicki knows about me the better. The less she knows about my boring and strange and fucked up past, the better the chances of her actually wanting to be with me, and maybe if I’m lucky, actually stay with me.

We got married in a Catholic church ceremony. The weather was warm, and when I stood close to her I could see beads of sweat forming above her lips and on her brow. The bridesmaids were sweating foundation, looking like puffy blue clouds. They looked ridiculous, so much hair spray and lipstick and fabric. She was beautiful, a princess walking down the aisle in a dress that showed no extra skin, just the outline of her amazing curves. She drove me crazy standing there, wanting to give herself to me, like a present to unwrap. I hadn’t been able to see her until the ceremony, she arrived ten minutes late, according to our tradition here, and my jaw dropped. This woman wanted to be with me for life.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. She was older too, twenty six to my twenty two. Her name was Adriana. She was a spitfire. She had brown eyes that glistened when she was excited and flashed when she was angry. She didn’t take any shit. If I was talking like I was full of it, she’d call me on it right away. I had to take her on like a million dates before she’d sleep with me. A million fancy dinners and walks on the beach. I’d never lived with anyone, but she had, and after a few months she suggested we move in together. You know in that sneaky way where they try and make you think it was your idea. I was wise to her, but still. I’d been living at home, anxious to get out of there, have my own life. I didn’t mind that much. She had a good job in P.R, made good money, worked hard. My dad had just died, and I was taking over his business, struggling to be an adult, pretending I had it together when I didn’t. She gave me this stability that I wanted but had never had, and the chance to legitimately call myself an adult.

We got married after less than a year, we discussed our goals of moving overseas, our ambitions, the money we both had. It just made sense. If we moved somewhere, like the US, we could have a business together, I could earn in dollars and send money home. I don’t know if I loved her, if I knew what love was, if I wanted love. I knew it was easy and comfortable. I think she loved me, and I loved that for once I was doing what was expected of me. It felt so good to not be fucking up for once.

We went to Disneyworld for our honeymoon. We were like two kids running around Florida, riding teacups and small small world rides, screaming on rollercoasters, eating hot dogs, kissing, holding hands.

It was great. It made us sure of where we wanted to go. When we realized we couldn’t get into the US, she suggested Canada. She did the research and found Toronto, with its huge Brazilian community and job prospects. She did the paperwork and got us in. And she was the one who suggested, once we’d studied English for a year that we invest in a fun business, something entertaining, a restaurant or bar.

It was her idea not to just do Brazilian food, to work it in somehow. I spotted the bar on West Queen West, the dive with two pool tables, a tiny bar, some swivel stools. I was the one who researched the scene, figured out what was popular there. It was my idea to embrace the sleaze. Calling it Casa de Rocha n Rolo was my idea. Hers was to shorten it to CDRR. We made Brazilian food and drinks, but also served American junk food. We had five dollar white trash specials, like mac n cheese, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, along with rice and beans, the across the border special. It was the chef’s idea to be honest, but it was brilliant. When we had the money we got a gambling license, put in mini poker tables and a slot machine. We built a mini stage for local bands to play, got the kids who work here to tell me who to hire, and what lps we needed for the jukebox, fuck if I know. The bathrooms have great signs: the guys says backstage area, the girls says groupies. We paid a graffiti artist to do the walls- hip hop looking, rock n roll, thick blacks and silvers. We have a theatre room upstairs now, that plays indie movies or cool movies with no cover charge on Weds. The university kids come dressed up, corsets and boas for Moulin Rouge, army gear for Full Metal Jacket. We actually started making money when things started falling apart. She was doing the books, doing the numbers, crunching and budgeting and figuring things out and I was doing every girl that came in. I couldn’t help it. We hadn’t had sex in months. All we ever talked about was business. We worked different hours, different kinds of work, we never saw each other.

One day she found me in the backroom, fucking some girl, her panties around her ankles, my pants down and she waited til the girl left, then dug her nails into my face until it bled. She packed her stuff up and moved out that night. This was more than a year ago, but still.

She still owns half of the business, our apartment and a whole lot of other things. I probably could never have done anything without her. We don’t talk that often, but she has power over me and she knows it.

It’s hard for me to officially end it with her because I know I need her.

I don’t love her, and I don’t think she loves me.

I want to let go, have it officially be over, but I’m terrified.

What if I’m nothing without her?

Technically speaking, we’re still married.

As far as Anika, or any woman I’ve ever been with knows, I’m single. Completely and one hundred percent single, the full owner of my life, and this place.

Adriana has me by the throat, and could go for the jugular anytime just cause she feels like it.

I’m not good enough for either of them, and I know it.

I’ve always been terrified of getting pregnant. When I was younger I used condoms and birth control.

I always freaked out if my period was late, which was often cause it was never regular. I’d buy at home tests at the pharmacy, pee on cardboard sticks while I sweated with fear in tiny badly lit bathrooms.

I always knew deep down, rationally, that it couldn’t happen, that it was impossible, physiologically impossible, but it was my biggest fear. You have a kid and it’s for life. It’s the biggest responsibility ever.

Since the guys I slept with weren’t my boyfriends, or the kind of guy you’d want to be with seriously, or marry, let alone have kids with, it wasn’t happening. I’d panic late at night just thinking about it.

It was something my family would never accept, I’d have to tell them I was having sex, get a talk about AIDS and the AIDS rates in South Africa. It was a conversation I could never imagine having with them.

I couldn’t let them down like that. I had to have the bright future they expected me to have, even if I kept screwing it up somehow.

I got pregnant on a night that he came over late. It was July in Toronto, humid. I didn’t have air conditioning. I was so hot I’d been walking around in a pair of his boxer briefs, no bra. Little pools of sweat had gathered underneath my breasts, in my belly button, on the insides of my elbows. He told me I looked hot, so sexy he said, like I’d been up all night waiting for him, just waiting for it. He tore off my shorts, my nails ripped at his shirt. We had flavoured condoms, strawberry, vanilla, I chose chocolate. He grabbed lube, the kind that had the words extra heat generating on the bottle. If you make me any hotter I’ll die, I panted, it was hot, it was animal. We fucked on the bed, the hardwood bedroom floor, the cool grey marble of the passageway outside the bathroom. He went down on me twice with the grin and glee of a kid in a candy store, like he could never get enough. He fucked me standing up, sitting down, on top, from behind, doggy style, the works. Two hours later I was lying on his sweaty chest, brushing hair out of his eyes. He reached down absently, touched me down there softly, and pulled out a jagged piece of plastic. The condom had broken inside me. We’d been going so hard and so fast and it was so good that I hadn’t felt it.

I started to cry, I started to panic, I couldn’t breathe. It was three am, and I had no idea where to find a twenty four hour drug store. I’d stopped taking the pill two weeks before, it’d had caused my skin to break out and my breasts to feel tender. It had made my mood swings worse than ever. The day before my period last month I cried so much I had to leave work early. I figured we were using condoms and that was enough. They’re ninety nine point nine percent accurate, or something like that. I knew how to use them, and he definitely knew how. It’s ok, baby, it’s ok, he said, pressed my body into his shoulder, my face into his neck. It’ll be ok, I’m sure it’ll be fine. It happens. We’ll wait a few days, take a test, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. He kissed my forehead. It’s happened to me before, a few years ago, she didn’t get pregnant. I looked up at him, looked into his eyes. I wanted to believe him so I did.

What happened, I asked, my throat still sounding like it was full of tears. I was a lot younger, I was in Brazil, we were in high school. I felt a twinge of jealousy hearing this, and I hated myself for it.

I told the girl’s mom, we were so freaked out, and she told us it would be ok. She told her to go take a piss, that it would get some of it out, you know? And it worked.

I looked at him in disbelief. Seriously? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. No one would ever get pregnant then, Dez. Leo, call me Leo, Ani. I like it.

I smiled.

I’ll take you to get a test tomorrow, ok baby? But I’m sure it’ll be ok.

He drove me to the drugstore down the street at 8:00, and sure enough, the test came back negative.

See? I told you, he said, kissing my neck. We bought more condoms too, more expensive ones, that kind with the words extra durability on them.

I took another test a few days later and it came back negative too, so I stopped worrying about it.

When I was late the next month I wasn’t worried. I was stressed, I was busy, we busy getting busy.

There was a lot going on. He told me he loved me and I was floating, flying, nice to everyone all the time.

I even gave a neighbours kid a hug when she came to my door and asked for something. I mean, that’s saying something, I’m not a kid loving type, at all. I was so happy all the time. I’d landed the unattainable, I’d finally gotten him and I trusted him. I loved him too, so much. I was really happy.

When the second month came with no period, I knew I had a problem. I was hungry all the time, gaining weight, breasts growing even bigger, and killing me.

By then I’d found out things about him that made not sure if I ever wanted to speak to him again.

He hasn’t stopped trying to call me or text me or trying to get in touch with me.

I cry more now than I ever did before or during the abortion. I called my sister at 6:00 am South African time, hysterical, wondering why this happened to me, what I could do to fix all this, make everything like it was before, if it was possible. She listened. Ek dink aan hom altyd, I bawled. I think about him all the time. I don’t know what to do with myself now.

Losing him, it turns out, has been much harder than anything.

I didn’t ever realize how much I missed home. I didn’t allow it to occur to me.

Tzarich Lehitkadem, I told myself over and over. You have to move forward.

Ein Zmun Lachshov al dvarim cazeh. There’s no time to dwell on these things.

I repeated it over and over to myself, like a mantra, until it became true.

Block it out until you believe it, until you’ve made enough of a success of your life to allow yourself to look back. Squash it, shove it down. If I did think about home, I focused on the negatives, which, if I’m honest is not that difficult to do.

It’s hard to make a living in Israel. The politics are confusing and divisive. Your national ID number allows the government access to any and all information on you. It’s overpopulated. In the summer it’s oppressively humid. I had to go the army. Everyone has to go to the army. Your job in the army is based on your high school grades, and the job you get after is based on your work ethic and success there.

Guess who sent to the trouble zones, to Gaza or Sderot or the West Bank, whether it’s to be a fighter or a tank driver or an army data entry person? Not a straight A student in grade 12, that’s for sure. Who gets the great high paying jobs after? Not those guys either. It all accumulates, and by the time you’re twenty one or twenty two it’s all been figured out.

I’m twenty four, and I’ve been to more funerals of people my age than weddings and bar mitzvahs combined. It’s just a part of life there. You go the funeral and cry, put stones on the grave, watch a young body get put gingerly into the ground, sometimes dropped in by hysterical parents who’d hoped their kid might outlive them. In Israel we don’t use caskets, it’s a religious thing, something about returning the body into the earth. I’ve been to thirty funerals now, friends, friends of friends, distant cousins, neighbours. I don’t miss them at all.

There are hardly any pubs or bars at home, and alcohol is expensive. Dating involves an unusual amount of game playing on the woman’s part. I think it comes back to religion, being told no from teachers and parents, learning to use sex as weapons of power and control. No woman I know there seems to have sex for fun, unless she’s in a long term relationship or married, so she knows it’s ok. Before I left, I had a one night stand with a guy called Or. I had to do it- I made all the first moves, I kissed him first in the front seat of his car, supplied the condoms and we did it in his backseat, windows fogged up, feet pushing against the glass. At mamash zoremet, he said to me, you really go with the flow. And it’s what guys say there when girls are slutty but they like it anyway, it’s a figure of speech but it sounded so poetic to me then. I was flowing like a wave and hitting the sand softly, enjoying myself without any calculating or consequence. I left the next day so I didn’t have to wait for his text that never came, I didn’t have to sit around regretting it, feeling terrible, facing my girlfriends with their knowing looks.

In Israel people are always telling you what they think, whether you ask them or not. People refuse to stand in line, get into screaming fights with cashiers and waiters, constantly try to rip each other off.

And yet, it’s a place where people are warm, like me. Where people’s hearts and minds are on their sleeves, where you never have to guess where you stand with anyone. People get angry fast, but get over it really quickly. When I drove down the main street of my city, Ra’anana, the night I arrived, I was surprised to find my cheeks wet, my mascara running.

I was in a place that felt comfortable, and familiar, a place where I had history. I had memories from my teenage years and my childhood ricocheting in my head every time I passed a street or saw a store front.

I’d forgotten what that felt like. My whole life, it seems I’d dreamed about escaping, to anywhere, to what Israelis call Chul- an acronym for Chutzlaretz, any country outside of Israel.

I hadn’t expected to feel so happy to be back, so emotional.

I knew could say what I really thought or act natural without worrying about judgement. I hadn’t felt so relaxed in months. I was finally home, and it felt so good.

I wondered what Lukas was doing in Canada, if he missed me. I wondered what would happen if I wanted him to come here with me. I wondered if he’d like it, if he’d see any of the beauty I saw, if he’d love it too. At that moment, I missed him more than I ever had before. I wanted him to come here, to see it, to understand me more. I wanted him to experience everything with me. I wanted him to really see me.

The neighbourhood is so hip it’s intimidating. Everyone else looks comfortable, slouching, leaning, going about their business, unaffected. Everyone else is unfazed by the collision of traffic and streetcars, trendy stores, crowded sidewalks and artists and musicians that are everywhere. When I walk into the record store a few streets down from where we live, everyone is buying vinyl, and the store clerks look at me blankly, or sneer when I ask questions. No one is friendly. It’s really hard for someone like me.

I’m not cool, I’m warm. I want to talk to and hug everyone. I want to be everyone’s friend. I want to say what’s on my mind without holding back, be as open and game free as possible.

Lukas thinks it’s funny. He tells me I’ll be eaten alive if I’m not careful.

I’m not worried about being taken advantage of, I’m worried about fitting in. I’m worried that this street will never seem familiar, no matter how many times I walk up and down it.

I’m worried I’ll never get the hang of the kind of small talk you need to get by here: the nod of acknowledgement, the iphone playing the right music, the earphones in so far that the noise of the street is drowned out. I’m worried I’ll never learn to like sushi, hold my liquor or pay 300 dollars for a sweater made by a local artist. In Israel, that kind of shit is what we’d call being a fryerit, a sucker. 300 dollars my ass, even if I had it. I’ll never understand that kind of thing. Chinatown or Kensington is better. It just makes more sense. At home my friends and I made fun of the kinds of girls who spent that on clothes, the kind that came from the northern part of the country, the rich part. Tzphoniot, we said, northerners, and we’d say it the whiny, nasal tone they use, the tone that implies everything- entitlement, brattiness. It’s the way people spend their money here that’s the most weird- spending so much to look like you spent nothing. It makes no sense.

There’s an expression I use all the time when I talk about Queen St – lo bah li, I say to Lukas, I don’t feel like it. He’s started looking for hipster bands to see or strange indie movies now, suggesting them one after another just to hear me say it.

I say it in exaggerated whiny voice, super northern, and he gets what I mean, even though he’s never been to Israel or met the kind of person I mean. There’s something similar about it, even though it’s very different. Snobs from all over unite. He makes me laugh. I love his laugh- it’s laud, wall shaking.

He has nice full lips.

He’s different to anyone I’ve ever met in Canada. He doesn’t pretend to understand, and when he gets something he really does. I feel like he’s crawled inside, into some secret crevice no one else has seen.

I feel like he gets me because he wants to, because it’s important enough for him to try.

He’s taking me to a rock show tonight, some friends of his, paying for everything until I find a new job.

I’m languishing on the couch when he gets home, changes, and is ready to leave. Lo bah li, he says, and laughs, you don’t feel like it, and I explain, li is me, lach is you, or me, you know what I mean. I laugh too.

He kisses my forehead, reaches down, and lifts me off the couch. He carries me out the door, over his shoulder, and I feel paper light, a colourful feather being blown into some exciting direction.

She comes over while I’m wiping down the counter. It’s quiet, the music is quieting down, an eighties hair metal ballad, so she doesn’t have to shout when she speaks, I can hear her.

Every Rose Has It’s Thorn. I hate this kind of music she says, wrinkling up her nose.

I laugh. Come on, I used to love Poison, I say. Come on, who doesn’t love cheesy hair metal once in a while? I grab a beer mug I should be drying, turn it upside down and serenade her. “Was it something I said or something I did/ Did my words not come out right?”

She starts giggling, flashing the kind of white toothed American smile that kills me. Her lips are glossy.

Her eyes drop to my name tag. Dez can’t be your real name, she says.

Nope. It’s a nickname, comes from my last name, Da Silva.

What’s your real name then, she says, leans in closer?

What’s yours?

I asked you first.

Ok, but you should know, only my mom ever calls me that. I pause dramatically.

It’s Leonardo.

Leonardo, she repeats. I like it.

Leonahdo, I say. We say our r’s like h’s in Brazil.

It’s a nice name she says. Like Da Vinci.

Or like the ninja turtle, I say.

She laughs again, flashes those teeth.

What does she call you for short?

Leo, I say.

Lay-o she repeats.

Good pronunciation, I tell her. I can smell her perfume, something with vanilla, Gaultier, I think.

Can I call you that? She flutters her eyelashes at me, eyes all big and hopeful.

We’ll see, I say, and grin. If you’re good.

She moves in so close her lips almost touch my chin.

And if I’m bad?

I smile, tell her I’ll be finished here in twenty minutes. She says she’ll wait, writes her number down on the back of a receipt someone left on the counter.

I probably won’t use it, but it’s a cute thing to do. Her name is Marcy.

You’re cute I tell her, and she smiles one more time, twirls a piece of her hair around her finger.

She’s wearing one of those low cut tops that almost cuts to her nipples when she bends.

I had my eye on her all night but didn’t do anything.

The best way to pick up is to make eye contact but very little effort.

When I was sixteen, I got in a fight with a guy who started with my girlfriend.

He was a scumbag, a real greasy bastard who hit on her whenever he saw her.

One night we were all hanging out at this guy John’s house, we were all a little drunk, and this guy gropes her, I mean actually grabs her tits and squeezes, tried to grab her crotch and I just fucking lost it.

I mean she was pregnant with my fucking kid you know? And he didn’t know that cause she wasn’t so far along at the time, but still. Cheryl was always telling him to fuck off, but he kept doing it in front of me to piss me off. She was right freaked out, thinking he was going to try to rape her or something, and that was it, I saw the real look of fear in her eyes and I wanted to kill. I wanted to fucking smear his blood all over the room. I was shaking when I went over to him, so angry I was scaring myself. I threw the first punch, got him right on the chin, motherfucker, and he hit me back, but he was drunker than me so his aim was shit. I’d never had a fight that was so full on- we were kicking and screaming, rolling on the floor, wrestling and tackling each other, he bit me at some point, I fought harder though, punched and kicked everywhere til I heard something crack. I was bleeding places and so was he, but he let out this scream, then this sigh that sounded like pain and death, that turned my blood cold for a sec.

He couldn’t get up, couldn’t move, Cheryl was screaming oh my god, what did you do, Luke, what the fuck did you do? Everything felt hysterical. Let’s get the fuck out of here she said, crying, rubbing snot and tears and mascara on my shoulder. John said he’d call 911,that things would be ok, bro, just chill the fuck out, go home, get cleaned up, but I knew they wouldn’t be.

I got a call the next day, I’d broken stuff in the guys back, and witnesses had seen it, my high school friends were all in line to sell me out. He’d been in a wheel chair, leaning forward, always needing people’s help. I should come visit him if I wanted, to see what I did.

To be fair, when I went to visit him, doctors examined me and I found out he’d broken my collarbone and I’d lost two teeth. Plus I was pretty bruised and banged up. Still there was no question who was worse off, and when it came to the trial, it was pretty obvious who was more guilty. I mean, I put the guy in a fucking chair right? He’d never walk again and it was all my fault. Nothing in the world could take the searing feeling of guilt I’d have to walk around with for the rest of my life.

It didn’t matter when Cheryl testified, months later when she’d had our kid, that she’d been scared for her life, that he’d scared the shit out of her.

There are other ways to handle these things son, the youth worker said flatly.

Yeah, you tell me how, I wanted to scream, but I kept my mouth shut, stared at the floor.

I was sentenced to two years in juvie, and slapped with adult assault charges. I have a criminal record, and if I break the law again, it’s off to adult jail, probably forever.

Cheryl and I broke up and I lost custody of my kid, plus contact with her. I have no idea how either of them is. Nicki doesn’t even know that I have a son, who would be six now.

I also can’t ever travel outside of Canada, which would break her heart, since all she ever talks about lately is travelling together.

She would never forgive me if she knew the truth. Nicki, my beautiful, educated girl, who’s stubborn as hell and just does whatever she wants all the time. How could she ever understand? Why should she?

It breaks me sometimes, when I think of how good she is, when I think of what she deserves, and then I think of who I am. She deserves so much better than me.

I wish I had the guts to tell her that sometimes. I wish I wasn’t so damn selfish.

When he comes to see me, I’m lying in the same position on the couch, knees in, arms and head on the left arm. I’m exactly where he left me two days ago. I’ve only moved to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, stay hydrated. It occurs to me that at some point, I might not feel like dying. Anything is possible. Remember to replace fluids.

My eyes are red rimmed, puffy underneath. My cheeks are burning from too much salt.

Balled up tissues, toilet paper balls rolled up are tucked into the crevices of the couch, in small piles at my feet.

He sits on the floor, next to me, and I say what I’ve been thinking for hours, that if I had known I would have tried to understand. Dez, I say, I’m capable of understanding. You have to trust me. You have to try.

He hesitates before he answers me, and when he does, he is firm and matter of fact. Anika, he says, no offence, but this situation is so complicated that frankly, your understanding doesn’t even enter into it.

His answer is so cold that I actually feel chilly for a second, pull the fleece blanket up higher on me, send a pile of tissues cascading onto the floor next to him.

My mistake, I say, looking away from him. My mistake.

Look, I’m sorry this has been so messy, he says, using his hands to move in between us, this thing between him and I. I never wanted it to be like this, he says, his eyes softening, trying to look sincere, and maybe he is, I don’t know.

I feel angry and sorry for him at the same time.

It is what it is, I spit out, which is what I mean, but also isn’t. I’m trying to be tough. I’m trying to make it less messy, let him extricate himself with less guilt.

He looks incredulous, soft eyes wide. So that’s just it then, we’re never going to see each other, or talk again? That’s the end, clean and easy?

I blow my nose, push my thumbs into the corners of my eyes to keep the tears inside.

No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, what do you want?

He gets up, moves to the arm of the couch, sits down on it, next to me. He smoothes some of the hair out of my face, out of my dirty fingers, gentle, soft, and it feels nice. I close my eyes.

I don’t know, he says, and closes his eyes too. I really don’t know.

We sit like this for what feels like hours.

Before he leaves, he leads me to my bedroom, help me tumble into bed, pull the sheet up on my face, underneath my nose, the way I like it when I want to fall asleep. He remembers small details, the kind that prick at the heart and confuse me leave me dazed for a second, but never the big things, never the important things.

I’ll come back and visit you soon, he says, shuts the door softly behind him. I can’t decide if I need him or I need to get my locks changed, if I want him in or out of my life forever. I love him more and in a different way than I have ever loved anyone.

I wonder why no one ever tells you what to do if love isn’t enough.

I have a part time job besides working at the bar. It’s pretty sporadic, but the money’s good, considering how little I do. I pose for a group of artists, some men, some women, at an art college near where we live. All I have to do is take off my clothes and lie or stand in different positions for three to four hours while they draw me. It’s really easy and kind of liberating. They don’t see fat or cellulite or jiggles, they see lines and contours and angles and shapes. I look at their drawings after and barely recognize myself.

So this is what it’s like, I think, for people to see everything about you, but not judge you or treat you like an object. I feel like one of those naked three year olds running around on the beach, completely carefree, wanting to run off and build a sandcastle or something, knowing that no is looking at me, or thinking anything’s strange. It feels amazing.

The girl I work with snorted when I told her about it. It’s good money, I told her, and really fun.

She looked at me like I was insane. Why not do porno films, she said, and rolled her eyes.

I thought about it.

I looked through a porno magazine the other day and thought, this must be a really hard job. How do you make something look erotic and intimate when you’re surrounded by lights and photographers and crew? How do you make it look natural? Is it like acting? I don’t think I could ever pull it off.

I like keeping my sexuality closer to chest, closer to my heart. I like reserving it for someone I care about, giving it some kind of meaning beyond what it is. I like connecting with Lukas in a way that no else can. I like how special it feels.

I told him about what Anika said to me, and he laughed. She doesn’t understand you, he said. She doesn’t know how important your art is to you.

When he’s being affectionate, during or after sometimes, he calls me his piece of art. He makes me feel like my whole body is a canvas, that I deserve to be seen and displayed and showed off. He makes me feel unique and sparkling, in a way that no one else ever has for me.

I hope I do half as much for him as he does for me.

When I was four I’d tap my feet to songs on the radio. We’d drive places, to beaches like Blouberg from Cape Town, around Christmas time, I remember it. It was hot, and windy. We’d sit in the backseat, sticking to it with the backs of legs, windows open, radio blasting, the wind whipping my ear drums. My sister would sing along to whatever songs were playing, the Locomotion, I Think We’re Alone Now. Loud. Ag, maar sy’s oulik. Oh, isn’t she cute, my mom would melt no matter how off key she was.

My dad would roll his eyes, pretend to focus on the round, but I could see him smiling in the car’s side mirror, trying not to. My sister had that effect on people.

I remember my feet moving instinctively, tap taping wildly, like it was the most natural thing. I loved to move, even then. It took me outside of myself, outside of wherever I was, to a place full of swirling colors and easy movements. Hours could pass that felt like seconds.

I couldn’t sit still when I started school either.

I’d get up from my chair, sashay through the desks around me, shimmy through the school corridors when I needed the bathroom. Maths was the worst. When I needed to work something out, I’d tap my feet against the floorboards, flex my calves and my ankles without realizing it.

The principal and teacher met with my mother to give her the news: perhaps, Mevrou Groenewald what your daughter needs is a dance school. They had some recommendations, and my mother signed me up.

I was a natural, ballet became my life. It was strange and fantastic to be rewarded for doing something I loved, something I would naturally do. I kept getting better and better, doing recitals, and shows, practicing three or four hours a day. High school was a blur of tutus, pink and black, blisters and feet that bled, muscles, and movement, stretching, challenges I won, and ones that beat me, jazz and modern and tap and Latin. It gave me a focus and a purpose and a love. It gave me this feeling of talent and worth and importance. It was what I was supposed to be able to do for at least another ten years.

It was supposed to be my life.

It wasn’t the kind of injury caused by an accident, unless you think that being in the wrong place at the wrong time constitutes as one. When they robbed the house, my sister and I were home. I was seventeen and she was twenty. Out of all the things we lost, the worst was my left knee. I was tied to a kitchen chair with thick nylon rope that cut across my legs. My feet turned blue cause they were tied too tight, or left on too long, and it stopped my circulation. Other things happened that night that I never talk about, things that were bad beyond words, but the nerve damage was the worst. I lost the kind of control of my muscles that I’d been working towards my whole life.

I should have been able to join a dance company, should’ve been able to do nothing but dance all day when I was finished school. Instead, my only option was university. My dad wanted me to go overseas,

but too many people I knew went to the UK so I chose Canada. I had enough background and ability left to minor in dance, to study theory, do a little practice, with the hope that I could one day run a dance school or studio. I had the time now to choose something new, study business or general arts or something useful. I had the chance to have a whole new future, but instead of feeling like the world was opening up, and expanding, I had nightmares about suffocating. I felt like the world was closing in, and I was living someone else’s life. I had to get out.

I still take one or two classes a week, but I don’t know what I want. I’ve never been less clear, and sometimes, on a good day, it feels ok.

I like working at the bar because it helps me. It helps me take my life less seriously. It helps me focus less on what I want, or what I’d like, than on what is. And sometimes that’s good for me.

The times I spend outside of my own head, are the times, when I realize looking back, that I’ve had the most fun.

I knew it would snow this morning. I could smell it.

The air had this dampness about it, this heavy feeling.

I breathed in deep as if the smog and smoke were good for me.

I went inside to watch, and wait, watch the ground get lightly dusted with icing sugar white slush, then watch it turn ankle deep. Watch the neighbours shovel their driveways until it turns into knee high hills on the sidewalk. Watch the cars drive by spraying water and dirt and mud, turning it brown, and grey.

Watch people slip and slide, fall in mid conversation, mid cell phone call, face plant. Try not to laugh.

Try to sympathize, karma, and all that. It will happen to me, when I leave the house one night, when it’s too dark to see, or when there’s black ice in the day, it will happen to me, I know.

I love winter in Canada. I love the routine, the lack of unexpected conditions. People come home early and want to go out less. Lukas complains that he’s bored, but there’s a calmness about it. We drink cheap wine, and watch Seinfeld reruns or pay per view movies and talk about what we did at work. Mainly I talk, and he listens. He doesn’t usually say too much, which is comforting too.

No judgement.

I told him about the guy at the bar who kept asking me where I was from, insisting on knowing. I never say, I just ask people where they think I’m from, and agree with whatever they say. It’s easier. I’ve travelled a lot, so I can usually bs my way through a conversation about most places, a short conversation anyway. For some reason, two nights ago, I decided to tell the truth.

He had long brown dreads with wooden beads in them. He reminded me of the kind of guys we have back home who travel to India after their time in the army, the kind who are laid back and smoke lots of weed, and are generally fun to be around. We’d describe him as ‘shanti’. He was sitting on his own, with a backpack, drinking glass after glass of blond on tap. He was friendly.

I said I was from Israel, and it turned into a whole big thing, all the stuff I spend my life trying to avoid.

He told me he was from Nova Scotia though, like Luke, so I still had hope.

He started talking, gently at first, and then more and more angrily about how he’d read about Gaza, how it was such a sin, what was happening here.

I didn’t know what to say. I was careful. I said it’s true, people are suffering for no reason, it’s wrong, which is what I really do think.

He started bringing up the army, slurring, talking about how people, including girls are forced to go, and did I go, and what does it matter, I asked him, but he insisted that it did, so yes, I said, yes, fine, I did go. I sat at a desk, in an office in an army base doing things I’m still not allowed to talk about. I was in Intelligence. I had to.

It sounds pretty easy, he said.

You don’t know the half of it, I said. I still did basic training, learned how to fire a gun, how to randomly hate and fear strangers. They still tried to indoctrinate me. I still felt like I couldn’t leave, like I didn’t have a choice. Some people I knew pretended to be crazy, dropped acid before their army interviews, said they heard voices, feared planes crashing into their bedroom windows.

I didn’t have the guts to do it though. My parents put fear into me about a psychiatrist’s file following me through life, a big red stamp that said crazy all over any work file, or official profile about me.

I didn’t have the guts to not do what everyone else I knew was doing. I couldn’t leave before, so I left after. I may never go back, but I don’t know where I want to be.

So what’s your real name baby? It’s not really Nicki is it? He tried to grab my hand.

It’s Nili, actually, I said. But I prefer Nicki. And I’m not interested.

You should be who you are, man, he said, smacking into a wall on the way out.

I don’t understand what’s wrong with being who I want to be, especially when it feels more true sometimes than who I really am.