Chapter 1
The whole manuscript is available upon request
Seems like my arm is missing
The vacation could have turned into a disaster. It had every chance of doing so. They could have gotten into a fight and spent the entire trip in separate rooms, disappointed and hurt. One of them could have had food poisoning, leaving the other to enjoy the sunny beach and cultural sites alone. They could have become bored, wanted different things, suffered from insomnia, or let something unresolved interfere with their time together. The vacation could have turned into an obligation rather than a joy. They could have had nothing to talk about. They could have chosen sleep over sex. They might not have found what they were looking for. None of that happened.
Diane and Peter had a wonderful time together: they swam in the sea, tried diving, and saw the pyramids. Peter said Diane must have been an Egyptian goddess in disguise, because the pyramids suited her perfectly, and she looked disarmingly pretty in the photos. They didn’t talk much about important things, though—the things they had come on vacation to discuss—instead, they enjoyed both sex and sleep. Peter and Diane agreed they needed to buy a new mattress, new pillows, and new bed linen as soon as they got home.
For the first time in years, they didn’t try to amuse each other with conversation.
The most intellectual thing Diane said during the vacation was:
“These students, you know? I mean, I have no idea how to handle them anymore. It’s like they are a whole new breed of human beings. I am lost. I love my job. I adore it. You know that, right?… Oh my, I am so stuffed!”
They were drinking wine diluted with sparkling water. They had just had a seafood tower that melted in the mouth.
“But they are… they are just not like me at all. Not only age-wise, but otherwise. Their default settings are completely different from mine. It’s like they were never told, or taught, the basic things,” Diane said.
“Which is?…” Peter asked.
“They are so fierce. Each day they find a new enemy they want to fight.”
“Let them fight,” Peter said.
“I don’t want to fight. I am an educator. Educators create peace,” Diane said, and belched.
Instead of taking another sip of wine, Peter yawned into the glass.
“I feel so good right now. I am so happy being around you,” he said. “Nothing else matters, sweetie. Not right now.”
Diane caught her reflection in the balcony window—and what she saw pleased her. Why wouldn’t it? She was a natural blonde, decently slim, with charming little wrinkles under her eyes. And if that was not enough, she had a long neck and fine, round shoulders that reminded her of wings. Come to think of it, Diane did resemble a bird.
She sighed at the moonlight.
“But at some point, we’ll need to talk,” Diane said. “I mean, we came here to talk.”
“What have we been doing all this time?”
“You know what I mean. Talk talk. A deep, meaningful conversation.”
“Okay, sure, but honestly, I think we are just fine,” Peter said.
“I live with a missing limb.”
“What?”
“It seems so.”
“What?”
“Stop saying ‘what’.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just trying to say, I guess, that I can’t resist the feeling that something is missing. Something big,” Diane said.
“Like your arm? But your arms—both of them—are right here, hanging from your shoulders,” Peter noted.
“This is only an example. Something as big as if my arm were missing. Maybe it’s missing inside. Maybe outside…” Diane laughed. “I am tipsy.”
Peter said:
“Let me check.”
“Check what?”
“Check if everything is still in its place, or if something is missing. Let me check. I’ll perform a thorough check-up. Come here. Come here!”
They had rented a deluxe suite—two rooms, a jacuzzi, and a minibar included—those small luxuries that make a vacation feel perfect. Peter chased Diane to the bedroom, stopping briefly in the bathroom for a passionate kiss, giggling and fooling around, as if he were not a boring salesperson, but a young, slightly overweight and prematurely bald happy idiot with his whole life ahead of him.
The night brought them moderate joy (considering the protein-heavy supper) and light sleep afterward.
While on vacation—among pyramids and colorful fish, on the edge of the desert, under the sizzling sun, surrounded by strangers who grew redder and drunker by the day—Peter eventually confessed:
“I am even happier than I was before the trip,” he said. “It feels great—like I’m ready for a new chapter in life, or something. In a good way.”
Diane agreed.
“Maybe we’ll figure out other things, too,” she said. “When it’s time for that.”
When their vacation ended, they left for home. They sat in silence on the plane—but it was a good silence, as if they fully accepted a closeness that could exist without words. In the taxi from the airport, they sat back-to-back, contemplating a familiar, enormous, sprawling city—perfectly dreadful in its dystopian metal and brick skin, always hungry for new inhabitants. Their favorite city in the world.
“Did the cleaner come?” Peter asked as soon as they entered the home.
“The cleaner?”
“Yes, the cleaner. Did she come?” he repeated.
Diane looked at him without responding, then turned on the air purifier and headed to the bathroom.
Peter dropped the bags and sank onto the couch.
“Did the cleaner come?” he said again, pulling off his shoes and socks in one motion. “Don’t you usually call her to clean when we’re away?”
His face showed displeasure mixed with disappointment—a combination Diane had not seen during the entire trip.
“Do you want to eat before bed? Or—not before bed, I don’t know your plans… I’m going to crash. We might have something left in the fridge,” Diane said.
“We might,” Peter replied, half-dressed, still sitting on the couch, polishing his shoes.
On her way to the bedroom, Diane glanced at him.
It’s strange how memory works: one gesture or word can bring back a flood of others.
Peter, gloomily polishing his shoes, made the voices in Diane’s head speak.
She heard her own voice first:
“We’ve reached a point of nonsense. Should we give up?”
Peter’s voice responded:
“We never give up! That’s something we never do.”
The whole dialogue passed in a few seconds, as present-day Diane reached the bed and prepared to lie down.
“What else do we never do?”
“We never quarrel about money.”
“Right. I’m honestly asking—I don’t remember what we agreed on. It feels like those were different people, not us, who made that deal.”
“The ‘us’ deal?”
“Yes, that one.”
Diane closed her eyes, trying to sleep, unable to—as if she had only now remembered why they had gone on the trip in the first place. They were supposed to work on their relationship, to find new meaning, to tame the future—all that.
The trip was wonderful, Diane admitted, but had it worked as planned?
The flat they owned—and had lived in for the past decade—was modern and spacious. It wasn’t cluttered, so they could move freely through it. There was a living room where they rested on a large, soft couch, watched films on a big screen, or sat in separate armchairs, looking at separate screens. A glass cabinet held a wide variety of booze, and a few glossy-covered books lay on the side table, rarely read.
The apartment had two bedrooms—one for them, and one for potential guests. In the past, friends stayed over often, but over the years this had become rare, so the second bedroom remained clean, shut, and unoccupied. Once a month, according to Peter’s calendar, the cleaner made the bed and changed the linen.
The kitchen was modern, decorated with glass and metal. Diane wasn’t fond of cooking—she was mediocre at best—so they chose not to spend money on appliances they wouldn’t use. A coffee machine, a toaster, an air grill for special occasions, and a cocktail blender seemed sufficient.
The dining table could seat eight people, its thick glass surface strong enough to hold tablecloths, plates, boards, appetizers, and main dishes.
The last time they had as many as eight guests was for Diane’s celebration. It was when she had just received her MA and had soon been noticed by a prestigious university. She got a job, a decent wage, and improved social standing. The news called for celebration: sparkling wine, sushi, tapas, and more. They invited their best friends—old ones who had supported Diane before she became “Diane and Peter Borg,” and newer ones who had met them as a couple and liked them both.
Their friends were generous—they never judged Diane and Peter’s life choices.
In retrospect, it had been a happy night. They stayed long past midnight, talking about support and empathy. They ate, they drank, and they felt warm and real. The memory still comforted Diane: whenever something went wrong, she returned to that night and lived it again.
There had been so much truth and hope in the room—it was priceless.