He told her he was here on a short visit, something work-related, but she wasn’t really listening. Sometimes, when engaging in such meaningless conversations, she felt like throwing in a random question like “Do you believe in god?” or “What did you dream of becoming as a kid?” But this time she couldn’t even toy with the possibility, because he apologized and said he had to rush off, had a meeting with a famous curator who was interested in his art. “Too bad I don’t have a few more minutes,” he said and disappeared into the nearby alley. She found herself offended without knowing why.

2.

AT THE END of each day, she’d put the kettle on, study the white bits swimming at the bottom, and make herself a cup of black coffee with sweetener. Then she’d settle onto the living room couch, rest her tablet against her legs, and peek into the life of one of her hundreds of distant, virtual friends. That evening she checked out Micael’s profile, devoting considerable time to the matter:

One year in Germany and still don’t get Brecht

How do I break it to Grandpa that I’ve become a Bayern fan?

#MilkyProtest: It is cheaper in Berlin—but I still don’t like Milky pudding.

She thought about how there were three types of people in the world: those whose lives were worse than hers, those whose lives were just as boring as hers, and those whose lives she couldn’t help but be jealous of. In Tsabari’s case, one photo at a world heritage site and she succumbed without a fight. Tamara perused a few more photos. Michael was a good-looking guy. There was a childlike quality to his smile, especially against the sober black jacket he wore in many of the photos. Some of them featured a chubby German woman with a permanent smile on her face. Tamara wondered whether she was his girlfriend, thinking how she herself would never dare date a German man. She concluded that his life was better than hers, turned on the TV, and watched a trivia show in which the eliminated contestants plummeted through a trapdoor in the floor. Within less than an hour, Michael Tsabari had joined the dozens of people she was very jealous of and then completely forgot about. But later that night, he called.

He began by apologizing for running off in the middle of their conversation.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t give away how moved she was by this gesture.

“Maybe we could meet again?”

She didn’t reply, but Michael was persistent—informing her that he would be in Hadera again tomorrow, and would love it if she could make time for him. He admitted he had a favor to ask, and that “it wouldn’t be right asking over the phone.”