I was running away, and I had my parents' permission
, and I had my aunt
's permission, and I had my manager
's permission. They all let me leave for three weeks to 'take some time off
'. Three weeks that we all knew would just be escapism
and nothing more, late nights and tears
and getting drunk in Israel
instead of New York. Three weeks when I could pretend it all made sense, or forget that none of it made sense
and not have to deal with it.
So we sat on the Tel Aviv beach, myself and this boy, toes in the sand and chairs sinking in. Watermelon and beer and music filtering out from the open-walled dining room behind us.
They rolled in, wave after wave after wave after wave, in and in and on and further and more, as the round earth turns. We fell silent, grinned, talked, fell silent, and I was trying so hard to remember why it was I could never go back home and face it all again.
'I can't go back.'
He laughed and I laughed, and the waves rolled in, and I wasn't even mad at him for making light of it. It was turning cool but the sand was still warm on our feet, and we laughed at the absolute finality of my stupid statement.
(I went back).
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