Mori Mohr 3
Do I know? Yes? No? What do I know? Did it happen?
I sit with Ricky around a table with a red Formica top in a small kitchen glowing in the morning sun. We are wearing sunglasses, surrounded by a lush green jungle of climbing plants. Cannabis — not medical — Sensivera, cultivated palm trees, a few pineapple heads that grew extremely big, and red potatoes that became a monster of stems and green leaves. We drink from a moka pot that spreads a strong aroma of fresh coffee, and from the large, open window, a sea breeze blows into the apartment. Despite the Tel Avivi idyll, the morning is tough.
The distance between Ricky and me has become infinite. After last night, I can no longer find a way to bridge the gap that has formed between us. Are we happy together? Both of us sit in silence. Ricky doesn’t even acknowledge me. It seems she’s using me for sex.
“Have you decided yet?” she asks, pouring another round of coffee from the cafetière and adding hot water to her cup.
“No,” I finish the coffee in one gulp. Honestly, I’m not sure about us. Apart from the sex that unites body and soul, the relationship is drifting apart day by day. It’s deteriorating. Conversations are getting shorter. The camaraderie is fading. I wonder — why did I even get back with Ricky? Was there something unresolved left from the last round? I look outside to the empty street, glowing clean in the morning sun. Our intense orgasms lack a substitute; do they keep us dreaming and prevent us from moving on? Can we even move on? Is this love? What is love? Oh, it’s getting worse by the minute. Yes. There are so many questions left unresolved this morning.
“Say something,” Ricky says coldly. She sits opposite me with her sunglasses on, deadly serious.
“I don’t know,” I light another cigarette. I’m a slave to our intimacy, but communication is not there. We struggle to converse with words. The connection exists; Ricky has stolen my heart, but there’s nothing there to bind me with her. No commitment, no security… Damn, I need to call the police. Or maybe call a guy? It’s not possible like this. I’ll move on. I’ll find my way and the words to tell her.
“I’m going down to the kiosk.”
The end.
