Running Away Diary

MONDAY

I left a little late for work and hurried to the bus station. I realized I couldn't remember where I worked. I looked at the route map and chose to go downtown. In one of the alleys, I met my son. He asked me what I was doing there. I told him I was at work. He said he was at school. We hooked our elbows together and went to an Arabic bar to have a coke.

TUESDAY

An old friend from high school, Rona Cohen, sent me an email full of memories I could not remember. I did not want to insult her, since she had been one of my best friends. I wrote her back, inventing more memories about people whose names she had mentioned. I wrote: "Do you remember how Arnon rang the bell of an old man's house like a madman? The old man chased after him screaming he'd kill every trespasser and they ran until I couldn't see them anymore."

She wrote back: "How could I forget? The old man died from a heart attack in the middle of the chase. It really marked me."

WEDNESDAY

I carried a plastic bag full of sour cheese to the garbage can where I would not smell it. As I passed the gate, two boys chased a dog right at me. Its paws ripped the plastic bag, and the cheese covered us both. The boys ran away and the dog licked my shoes. I caressed its back until it finished eating.

THURSDAY

My daughter said we were out of water. I showed her the mineral water beside the yellow mustard.

She peeked at it and said, "We're out of everything."

FRIDAY

A baby girl with soft cheeks raised her large eyes at me. Her mother was smoking and drinking coffee by a café's counter. I picked up the baby and held her to my chest. She rested there for a moment, with trust, then she started to scream.

The smoking woman snatched her away. "What is it with you?" she asked.

I said, "I'm sorry. I could not help it."

FRIDAY

When I looked up, the family was gone. I turned on the TV and watched a woman having a breakdown in an open field. I turned off the TV. Instead, I read a short story by an American writer, whose name was lost for me. It was about adultery. I took the daily paper. The weather prediction was that of too much rain.

FRIDAY

The telephone rang. Before I said anything, a man said, "Sorry. It's a wrong number."

THURSDAY

A man with a brown stash of hair started following me. He went everywhere I did, keeping a few steps behind me, and when I was home, he waited behind the thick bushes and peeped into the house. I didn't mind it. I opened the window to invite him in for dinner. But when I looked out, the bushes were gone, and the street stretched long and empty.

FRIDAY

I kissed the postman. I kissed the man who delivers the gas cylinders. I kissed the Sedex man. I kissed the neighbor who came to collect money. I kissed the mirror. All the lips were cold.

SATURDAY

I bought myself a birthday card with a little joke about going over the hill to pick flowers. I signed the card and went to the post office to send. I never received it.

SUNDAY

I passed by a glass door and saw myself, with a prettier face, playing ping-pong inside. I wanted to go in and play, but knew I would lose, so I left.

FRIDAY

I finally got mail. It was a rejection of my application for a Philosophy course at the local university, UFEE. I had not applied anytime I could remember, but suddenly it seemed like a good idea. I looked the university up in the telephone book and Golden Pages, and then at Google. Such university did not exist.

THURSDAY

Nothing happened. I mean: nothing. Not the slightest wind, a barking dog, a passing man, nothing. The clock was stuck on 7:25. If I died then, nobody would have noticed.

SUNDAY

I was resting in bed when I heard steps in the empty house, crossing the room from the left to the right, the way it would sound through a sound system at a good cinema. The steps grew quick and urgent. I opened my eyes. The sound did not come from anyone walking, but from my own feet.

Avital Gad-Cykman