It’s evening. I’m lying in bed looking at the ceiling while Meir’s standing and ironing next to me. It’s peaceful. All we hear is the calming sound of the moving iron. I decide to drop the bomb.
“Meir, we need to talk. I don’t want you to panic or come to imprudent conclusions, but I’m fed up with my life as it is. It’s not like I’m planning on killing myself,” I add quickly, “but I can’t take it anymore.”
There, I said it.
Meir looks at me silently, and puts the iron on its stand. “Nina,” he says softly, “we need to buy the teacher a present.”
“Didn’t we buy her one already?” I ask.
“No. Remember at the end-of-school-year party? We brought presents to all of the teachers, the school secretaries and the janitors, but we forgot to buy the art teacher a present. She gave me her address. We’ll send it to her.”
I get furious. “Haven’t you heard a word I said?” I shout. “I’m standing on a verge of an abyss here! I’m tired of doing what I’m doing! I’m tired of being nice to people, of smiling, of waking up in the morning, of you!”
Meir irons silently. He has this gaze – his eyes say: the teacher’s present.
We say nothing for a while.
“How about an art book?” he suggests, finally.
“She must have dozens of them.” I say. “Yesterday, as I was riding my bike, I realized I should change my life completely. I even considered leaving you.” I say bravely.
Meir stops ironing at once. “Earrings!” he cries. “We’ll get her earrings.”
“What kind of earrings?”
“Maybe antique earrings,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say, and continue. “So, next time I’ll ride my bike with my lover, we’ll stop and have passionate, even illegal in some states, sex, right there, on the cycle path!”
No response.
“Did you hear me?” I cry.
“Sure. ‘Right on the psychopath,’” he quotes calmly.
“Cycle path! Not psychopath!” I shout.
He looks at me and starts ironing my white trousers. “Of course, not everybody likes antiques,” he sighs finally.
“But,” I say, “she’s an art teacher. I think there’s a good chance she’d like it.”
He somehow does not look persuaded.
“Don’t art people like contemporary arts? I think I’ll go now, wake the kids, pack us some suitcases and leave you right now! Are you listening?”
He nods softly. “‘And leave you right now,’” he echoes.
“Maybe a necklace. Somehow earrings seem too personal,” he says pensively.
“What colour?”
“How about turquoise?” he suggests.
“Sounds good,” I agree. “I know what you’re gonna say,” I continue. “You’ll say I should spice up my life, is all. Next thing you’ll say I should spice my life with arsenic! Gosh you must really hate me, Meir! Why won’t you just admit it? Why won’t you just stab a knife in my trachea, and get it over with?”
Meir folds my flowery shirt quietly. “I think an art book, after all,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Less personal. Plus she’d be able to exchange it.”
We smile hesitantly at each other. He folds the ironing board and comes to lie at my side in the bed. “I’m glad we had this talk,” he says, as I snuggle in his arms.
“Yes, I needed to get it all out of my system.” I say.
“Still, I think you should stop this no-carbs diet,” he concludes.
Boy, is he right!