Free Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz Page B

more enjoyable activities. She didn’t have to work that day, so she had a few hours to herself. She went to the shower, made sure the water was very hot, climbed in, and let it flow down on her head, her shoulders, her back. She stroked her hair, enjoying the feel of the long strands. She hugged her chest. She directed the stream between her legs until she felt the pleasure of release. Then she washed her hair, soaped her body, rinsed, dried off, and went back to her room, trailing the towel behind her.
    Ofir wasn’t home, and she felt free to walk around naked. She stood opposite the mirror. Water dripped from her hair, and there were still beads of it on her chest. Noa leaned toward the mirror, smiled, and examined her dimples. She turned and looked at her small, tight behind. She rotated and looked at her stomach, pulling it in tight. No, she wasn’t thin at all. Maybe she’d be more shapely if she lost a couple of pounds, but she couldn’t resist Aunt Farida’s delicious food. And maybe she didn’t have to. She loved to eat, and she didn’t think a woman had to be thin in order to be beautiful. She took pleasure in the full curves of her body. What is going on with me, she wondered. Am I falling in love with myself?
    She dressed and walked down the stairs and out into the warm Tel Aviv morning. She strolled confidently through the small, familiar streets, gazing into the colorful shop windows, looking at the faces of the passers-by. She thought about the seminar paper she had to write. She was trying to decide between two subjects, the writings of Yona Wallach and Amos Oz’s book My Michael . She loved Wallach’s poems and admired the poet’s intensity; as a result, she knew every detail of Wallach’s life. She was leaning toward Wallach and decided to visit Bet Hasofer —the literary center that housed every article ever written on Israeli authors. She would look through all the old newspaper clippings and see what she could find. On her way, she passed the used book store. Maybe I’ll pop in and take a look , she thought, just for a minute . She was addicted to these stores; she often found herself buying books, usually poetry translated into Hebrew. She also loved Simone de Beauvoir’s books and used to buy them in the English translation. Sometimes she would come across a real find in that unpredictable bookstore, like the collection of an unknown female’s poetry from the previous century that had captured her heart.
    Noa entered the store, looked up, and gasped. Without realizing it, she took her long hair and draped it over her chest. Across from her stood Ehud, her friend from childhood, the object of fantasies through high school and the army—her first love, painful and unfulfilled. He wore his uniform. It had been a long time since she’d last seen him. When he noticed her, he gave her a look so serious it was almost scary, as though he had just seen a ghost.
    “Ehud, what are you doing here?” she said.
    “Hi, Noa,” he said in a dry tone, “what are you doing here?”
    “I always come here,” she said.
    “Um . . . I buy books here, too, from time to time.”
    “We haven’t . . . we haven’t seen each other for years,” she stammered.
    “You’re right, it’s been years At least five, I think. So how are you, Noa’le?”
    I can’t believe it, he called me Noa’le . “Fine. You?”
    “I’m fine, too.” What a brilliant conversation, so deep and philosophical .
    “What are you up to?” he asked. She was quite sure he had looked at her chest at least twice.
    “In general, or now?” she asked.
    “Both the former and the latter.” There he goes, still speaking like a soldier .
    “I’m studying and working and living. And you?”
    “I’m a career soldier. I left the army to study, then I went back. I serve in the territories, and,” he said proudly, smiling for the first time, “I’m already a major.”
    “Is that what that branch means?” she said, pointing to