I ran to the bathroom more times than a teenage bulimic. I’m not used to all this emotion.
Waiters tap their fingernail impatiently on the table and remind you, sternly, that the bill doesn’t include a tip, even as they hand you the menu.
On my birthday I go to an exhibition. Its themes are: death, separation, misery, gloom. Everything but fun. Perfect!
He’s too polite to say he thinks he’s more handsome than me, but he’s not too polite to think it.
We’re drunk and happy, and howl into the night, like wolves in the forest.
I discover that doing nothing is more fun than having nothing to do
He laughs. “I wish! I wish you’d fuck me.” He howls this into the night. He doesn’t care who hears. “Fuck you all!”
A man at another table pointed at me, his hand trembling, and said, “Itzak Stern sat there.”
I am distracted, and slightly repelled, by her moustache, can hardly take my eyes off it, actually…
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
He shows me the top of his tattoo, which is of a large feather. It’s well drawn, actually. It starts at the small of his back and, I don’t really want to imagine, sweeps downwards.
An elderly Dutch woman stops to talk to me. She has lived here and in London, but prefers Rotterdam now. She hates Tel Aviv. She wouldn’t have moved here if she’d been me. It’s too hot, for one, and there are too many bikes.