Selfish Love

“You could just not have given him that hand job, you know,“ he spluttered and crossed his arms over his chest. For once, his motion did not draw Tamar's gaze to the powerful biceps underneath Kfir's shining tan skin. She could only gape in his general direction as his words hit her like Krav Maga to the crotch.

Her own words came out in stunned blurts. “Did you miss the part where he grabbed my head and tried to push it on his dick? While speeding through pouring rain? What, you want me to fight off a man twice my size, possibly armed, and make him lose control of the car and get myself killed – to get out of a hand job?“

“Yes!” Kfir gasped, as if she'd just asked the dumbest question since “What color is a clear sky around noon?”. “Yes, you should have! You didn't defend your honor at all!”

“And saved my bare ass from injury, rape and death instead. That execrable fucker-”

“Hardly did anything wrong!” Kfir burst in. Tamar's foot seemed to be circling the table-leg on its own accord, groping for the right angle to kick the table into the young man's still perfectly symmetrical face. The latter kept talking. “Cab drivers hardly make a living as it is – at worst, all he did was take advantage of your drunk ass!”

“Oh, so when she's too weak to fight back, it's okay. I see.”

Kfir snorted. With all the filth coming from his mouth, that perfect Colgate smile was not as sexy as Tamar had once known it. “Aaaw, Tamar,” he sneered, “I'm not interested, really. You went to a Pagan party of whorish grinding to meet someone you were probably not gonna marry, got hammered and hoped to wank a discount out of a cab driver. A cab driver! I don't know what to say, I'm so disgusted right now...”

Tamar laughed in spite of herself. It was one of those shocked bursts of laughter that roughly translated to the wish to unbirth someone right back into their mother's womb and slit the latter's throat so the person in question would, retroactively, never happen. “Well, you've already said enough.”

As she rose from her chair, Tamar made sure to knock over her latte and see it soak Kfir's new Abercrombie denims.

“Are you insane?!” Kfir squealed as he tried to brush the liquid off his crotch as if it was sand.

“Gotta be, if I call a misogynistic rapist advocate who thinks he's a model Jew, my best friend!”

As she marched off, she relished the not so hushed remarks coming from the other guests of the café. Using the terms “misogynistic” and “model Jew” in the same phrase was no image boost for the addressee these days. When pious Jews spat on little girls and threw vegetables at women for sitting in the front of a bus, one did not want to be called out as the one who defended a sex predator while donning a white and blue yarmulke.

“But... but the check?!” she heard him splutter ten meters behind her. They had met at the café as friends and Tamar had offered Kfir to put his drink on his long, long tap so he could enjoy life even without the means to afford a bus home later on. And now they had parted as foes, with little incentive for Tamar to remember her generosity.

“Boohoo!”

She had seen it coming. She'd known Kfir was a sheltered religious Jew from the States who could not begin to grasp the less rosy reality of those who did not have a thick Bible full of pep talk and illusions shielding them from hardship. Where Kfir came from, the term “hateful” was the most commonly used word to describe any form of skepticism or criticism of anything deemed “positive”.

Tamar was from a different background altogether. Not raised religiously, she had always faced the world for what it was and made up her own mind. And while she was generally optimistic, she would not, for the life of her, call a turd a dandelion. Kfir had long declared her “insanely negative” for this. Tamar was glad she no longer needed to bite back her anger at his deliberate ignorance. In spite of which he had come to Israel to serve in the army. Tamar had already done her two years of service, Kfir was still trying to get a foot in the door.

Expecting heroism, comradeship and being “part of the epic saga of the Jews” while defending “his” homeland which he had never set foot in, much less spoke the language of, until his arrival eight months ago. Before that, there was only one Birthright trip during which a biased guide had showed him a biased view of the most holy sites and some nature.

Before she knew it, she had made a crease in her nail from having clenched her fists so hard. Smug, simpleton Kfir, proclaiming Tamar's insanity for little more than the fact that she represented the typical Israeli attitude and temperament, which he was not used to what with sticking to other American lone soldiers and American orthodox Jews hosting him for Sabbath diners in order to reinforce his unfounded convictions. That same men had now taken it a step further by blaming the immodest woman for another man's lack of self-restraint.

Exhaling loudly, Tamar raised her nose into the oncoming breeze that dried her sweat. A smile crept across one side of her face. Kfir would find out soon enough that she was not the only Israeli to have his illusions for breakfast. Unless he'd end up in a mostly American-populated platoon, the Israeli army would smash his face on the raw asphalt of reality and drive a Merkava Mark IV over it faster than he could say “Baruch Hashem Adonai Melech HaOlam”, which he could recite just as fast as he could disown a homosexual as a Jew.

And yet, she'd always been terrified of losing Kfir's friendship. Let alone that what she used to feel for him had been love at first sight. Then the troubles started. Kfir would prove to be aggressive, even violent, too small-minded and sheltered to truly accept someone such as herself. Had it really been mere fascination? Tamar, the real Israeli girl, who had served in the real army and lived in the real unholy Holy Land? If it was, then the novelty had sure worn off fast. And now that it was over, she was too shocked to hurt.

Cats crossed the narrow path of Massada street in front of her, darting out underneath cars to dive under another on the other side. Two black cats sat like gargoyles in front of the entrance to a small apartment building. Tamar grinned. Those cats had been there for as long as she could remember, guarding that house. The clipped tips of their left ears meant they had been altered. Doctor Znav was obviously still making an effort to alter all the strays to slow down the great kitten tsunami that washed over Israel, especially Haifa, every other season.

As she approached the pedestrian mall, Tamar remembered she needed a drink to make up for the one she had spilled on Kfir on behalf of all women, soldiers and intelligent people of Israel. Her bunny-shaped wallet yielded little cash, barely enough for an overpriced small cup of carrot juice. She decided to make a little detour to the bank, withdraw some cash. And ask that security guard, Liron, or was it Lior – or Roni? - about Crixus. She hadn't checked his Facebook in a while and had no idea how her former puppy was doing. All she knew was that she still wanted to deliver her landlord for compelling her to get rid of her pup and making her feel an obligation to acknowledge the semi-stranger sitting by the door of her branch every time she had business there, because, with Crixus between them, they had a connection and a reason to chit-chat, whether Tamar wanted it or not. She had only wanted a good home for her dog and this Li... ron? ..or? had seemed like a good choice. For the dog. For herself, she had chosen tall, handsome, funny Kfir. But wait...