“I’m dreaming … this isn’t real … this isn’t me … it can’t be…” – those were the phrases running through my head, refusing to wake me from this dream that was reality. I even pinched myself on my thigh to check. When I was finally convinced, I tried to relive what we’d experienced.But the thrill that coursed through my body when Lily returned and slipped into bed dispelled all doubt.
“When does your lease end?” she asked before we parted.
“In about a month.”
“Aren’t you renewing?” she pressed.
“We’re getting drafted.”
“So you’re only eighteen? A kid!” Lily laughed, surprised, pulling away.
“Are you crazy? I’m twenty-five. Military track medical school. Didn’t Shira tell you?” I shot back.
“No!” she said.
“She only told me that you’re an intern, and that you two are among the more decent ones this department’s had in recent years.”
“See, I hardly know anything about you, while you know so much about me,” I protested.
“Move in with me, then you’ll learn more,” she said playfully, catching me off guard.
“Live together already? You must be joking.”
“It’s crazy, but I feel like it’s the most logical thing in the world.” Again I was struck dumb. She must be joking, I thought. And yet, after last night, strangely enough, the idea didn’t seem completely insane. Still, everyone would think I’d lost it. Thoughts ricocheted through my mind…
“Wait – seriously? You mean it?” I managed to ask suspiciously.
“I’m serious. Really. This has never happened to me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Her last sentence set off a rush of pure exhilaration – Lily had declared she was in love with me, and even wanted to live together! But I immediately came back down to earth, thinking about my parents and their reaction if I told them I was moving in with Lily. Being Holocaust survivors, they’d never been thrilled about me renting an apartment with David. They wanted to keep their twenty-five-year-old chick close to the nest. They couldn’t understand why I needed to move out when I had everything at home. At the end of the month, I was supposed to move back home. They were really looking forward to it, counting the days.
Now I’d have to tell them that I’d met a woman named Lily. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. They’d been so attached to my former girlfriend, Daniela, that I’d feared for their health when I told them we’d broken up. Two years had passed since that breakup, yet every weekend I still had to swallow their resentment, especially my mother’s. And now, how would I even explain Lily’s health? I pictured my mother crying as I told them Lily was sick with some vague illness and had maybe two years to live. She’d flee to the bedroom with my dad close behind, throwingme an accusatory look that said, “What did we do to deserve this?” What was I thinking? What should I do? The more love drew me in, the more painful this became.
“Were you daydreaming?” Lily’s voice pulled me back.
“You’re thinking about my proposal?”
“What proposal?” For a moment, the line between imagination and reality escaped me. I snapped back quickly.
“What am I thinking? Of course, I’ll move in this weekend,” I said excitedly, hugging her.
“You know, I don’t even know what you do,” I blurted, surprising us both.
“I paint.”
Lily told me she painted, but she didn’t make a living from it. She had studied economics and philosophy for her BA, but admitted she knew nothing about either. During much of her studies, she’d been hospitalized, and the rest of the time, she simply hadn’t been interested. She chose to study alongside her father, who promised to do all her papers for her. She also told me about her illness, which had begun at fourteen from a bacterial infection whose name she couldn’t pronounce. She remembered “strepto-something” and I supplied the rest:streptococcus.She went into detail, and it seemed she’d found a partner in me. Whenever she described illnesses, symptoms, or treatments, I corrected her – and she immediately confirmed. It even seemed she enjoyed that suddenly she was speaking in medical terms, not vague descriptions.She also explained that she worked for her father, who was a freelance water-infrastructure consultant. He “hired” her services, which, by her own admission, consisted mostly of tagging along on-site visits.
“And don’t ask me what I really do, because I don’t always know what findings he presents to clients.”
“And you can live off that?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised. He’s considered an international expert in his field and charges a fortune. He pays me well enough.”
“Do you even keep a schedule?”
