When We Danced on Water Read Online Free

strands cascading in all directions. Over a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve coffee-colored camisole she has thrown a hand-knitted sweater she picked up in the Jaffa flea market, which she hopes will somehow pull together all the different hues in which she has carelessly wrapped herself. She stands sideways, trying to crush her belly and breasts inward while uncurling stooped shoulders. She gives up quickly and reverts to a slouch. “You mean men, don’t you, Mother?”
    â€œThat would be nice, of course,” Leah says with a sigh. “But even a good new friend would be pleasant, don’t you think?”
    â€œPleasant,” Vivi repeats.
    â€œVivi, you’re not getting any younger—”
    â€œI’m well aware of that, Mother.”
    â€œWell it’s time—”
    â€œTime for what? And according to whom?”
    â€œIt’s just time, that’s all. To get started with your life.”
    â€œMother, I’m not doing this now,” she says, her voice rising. “My life started forty-two years ago. Okay, I don’t have a degree and I don’t have a family, but my life’s pretty much in the middle and it’s filled with all kinds of … stuff, whatever it looks like to you.”
    â€œVivi, don’t get excited, I’m on your side.”
    â€œOf course you are, Mother. Who could doubt it?”
    â€œWhy don’t you take a day off and come up to Haifa? We’ll go to the Mane-Katz Museum and then we’ll have lunch down at the boardwalk, on the beach.”
    Vivi cuts off the conversation with her mother when she sees Pincho stumble out of his room, shirtless and in boxer shorts. His beauty twists itself around her heart, as always, but when he flings his arms around her and rests his head on her shoulder he has the slightly stale smell of every man, any man, fresh out of bed.
    â€œHi, sweetie,” she says, patting his back. “Make you a cup of coffee?”
    He nods into her neck.
    She holds him for a minute longer, then parks him at the tiny kitchen table and busies herself with the electric kettle and his favorite mug. She puts two leftover pastries from the coffee bar on a plate and brings it all to the table, where she finds him sleeping, his curls spilling over the wooden tabletop.
    She leans over, pecks his cheek. “Drink up, the coffee will do you good,” she says.
    He pulls himself up, wraps his hands around the mug, takes a sip, opens his eyes.
    â€œRough night?” she asks.
    He nods. “Huge crowd. Lots of requests. I was on my feet the whole time.” His voice is thick with slumber.
    â€œAnd everybody was hitting on you,” she says, and as usual with this line of questioning he ignores her. She has seen him in his DJ booth, earphones on and off his head, messing with the equipment, happy to be above it all, literally, in the smoky, writhing, throbbing cave that is Indigo. She has also seen him—from her perch at the bar, where she can sit unnoticed—constantly approached, constantly discussed by the men around her. But despite her best efforts, she cannot get him to talk about this with her. She has a feeling it has something to do with his upbringing, and she wants to be the one he can confide in since he has told none of his family or friends about himself. But so far he remains silent.
    His face is hanging over the mug now, enshrouded in curls, and she cannot get a read on his expression.
    â€œI’m going off to glassblowing, remember?” she says.
    He nods.
    â€œLet’s have dinner together, okay? I’ll pick up some stuff on the way home.”
    â€œI’ll be here,” he says.
    She is about to give him a hug from behind when something—the slope of his bare back, a mole she has never noticed, the thickness of his neck—reminds her of Martin, and she stops, steps away, and flees the apartment.

Chapter 6
    T eo is writing a letter on heavy paper