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Taking a sensual and quite public shelter from the rain
But how could it be perfect when the artificial nature of the wedding ceremony and the hard work invested in it leaves its marks on the facial skin, on the body and on the emotion? No, this is a night of total exhaustion, immersed with inevitable disappointment, hopeless longing and also a certain confusion that pertains to the new words: my husband, my wife.
All these emotions are conveyed through the remarkable laconicism of the story, which is devoid of melodrama and yet still emotionally stirring.
She was so glad the wedding was over. The unadorned car stopped in front of the hotel at the far end of the esplanade. They stepped out, he and the driver, his best friend, hugged before they parted. She wondered whether she should spit on his friend, who had nettled her throughout the entire wedding, but decided it did not chime with her baby-powder pink dress. One hand was holding the clutch, the other the silvery plates with the catering leftovers.
If she had had a third hand, she would have held her forehead, which was threatening to drop onto the floor.
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She congratulated herself for having refused a soaring hairdo with countless pins that would have required hours to be picked out. Her fingertips were tingling with the seven glasses of whisky she had drunk. The finest part of the bridal role were the constant questions whether she would like to drink anything.
The magic word whisky was enough to prompt him or her to fetch a full glass. She sipped her drinks at the deliberate pace of at least twenty minutes between each. As she had eaten and made sure to freshen up with a glass of water after each drink, she did not feel nauseous. And it may have been longstanding practice that protected her from senseless drunkenness. Lightheaded, she smiled broadly, just a bit tipsy. She recalled these events well and protected herself just in time against the looming blackout. At the wedding she danced herself to death. But now, in the hotel lobby, she had to stop for a moment and breath deeply under the myriad whirling lights of the giant chandelier.
In the elevator he paused in front of the mirror and looked at himself as he drew his cheeks in, biting and holding them like a female model, as he always did when he was being photographed.
This is why in photographs his lips are puckered into a puffed up O. The gesture was etched in her memory, as it was his habit, every morning after he combed his hair many times, to draw in his cheeks and to examine his reflection. The fluorescent light tinged his fair, pale skin pinkish with a hint of grey.
It had been a terrible mistake to buy him this pink shirt, and for shekel to boot. The collar gripped his neck tightly, on the verge of chocking. A fleeting glance into the elevator mirror revealed she was in far worse shape. She should have avoided a frontal view, should not have even dared look. She heard light raps on the elevator floor. Bending down, she noticed the tiny beads that had dropped from a torn thread of her embroidered vintage purse. As they made their way through the hallway, at the far end of which the sea blue carpet gleamed in the moonlight, she wondered whether he would carry her in his arms across the threshold, like in the movies.
Yet this option, even if it had existed, vanished when they reached the door. They were standing in front of the right room, on the wrong side. He looked at her. His weary, disappointed gaze almost resembled her state of mind. Still, with a flicker of hope, she went through the obligatory rummaging through her purse. She dredged up a lipstick, a sachet with eye shadow and a Q-tip, her out-of-order cell phone, a hair pin and the bouquet ribbon. The chambermaid mumbled something incomprehensible in Russian. He answered in Russian and was rewarded with a smile, a quick brief answer and a distracted hand brush through hair.
She looked at him, still rummaging through her purse, and must have touched the unruly thread because tens of beads scattered through the hallway. He came toward her, sighed as though he had expected even worse. She removed her ballet shoes, her substitute shoes, yet her feet still carried the smarting memory of five hours spent in high-heel silver sandals that bent the foot arch and squashed the small toe. They dragged themselves down the hallway that suddenly turned green.
In the descending elevator she made sure to keep her eyes downcast. Her pink toenails were still impeccable, the result of a French pedicure but a dark red line ran across her foot where the sandal strap had tortured her.
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A clerk with a runny nose was sitting at the reception desk, a heap of used toilet paper in front of him. He blew his reddish nose loudly, leaning silently on the desk. Even the hotel room number is odd, she said to herself. The clerk foraged in the computer and in his nose.