Alberto did something to displease a Russian customer, who, as a sort of warning, mimed slitting his throat.
His most recent relationship had been with a pre-op f-m sex change, but Yaron grew bored and ended it.
He’s in Israel ‘in case’, and I know that the case he’s most nervous of is Muslims taking over Germany. Israelis, as far as I can see, think that’s something that’s already happened.
She killed more bees, just so she could fill the tiny bee graves she’d dug.
If you’re thinking of seeing the Ministry for yourself, it is probably wise to take sandwiches, a thermos and maybe a sleeping bag.
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
Unusually for Israel, this Land of Blutos, he had no beard, no stubble, no hairy chest. He said, “Let’s go in,” so in we went.
Nathan imagines they’d be caught and, besides, the man may be a serial killer, so suggests the cruising park behind the Hilton instead. Much safer.
She lies on a rug with Alberto, they are playful with each other, then nap, their bodies touching, like incestuous twins.
This is a nation of shruggers, it is the answer given to many questions…
He says I should come back to the table and talk to him more, and blows me a kiss. I wink at him, like a playboy.
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
I go to the bank to check money has been transferred and to convert it into shekels. My rent won’t be paid without it. This simple job took nearly three anxious weeks last month, but has gone more smoothly this time. I’m thrilled to learn the pound has strengthened by a minuscule amount since I… Continue reading Nathan loves Alberto loves Rufina
They seemed especially nervous of ‘conceptual’ art. I can’t imagine what dark things they imagine.
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
Rufina’s face changes colour like a cuttlefish, pink to red to white. A tear runs down her cheek.
I reached the shop, down a short alley, and knocked on the door. I knocked again.
She looks behind her, as if to remind everyone of something, and flicks her hair, like a pony flicks its mane.
Nathan pretends to look serious and says, ‘We can talk about politics, if you want,’ and laughs, then repeats himself. We stop talking about Eurovision.