Jasmine’s down. Last night she fought with Bloom, again. He just won’t let her in. A gap, a barrier. He kisses her with his eyes open, but he doesn’t see her. She can tell his head is somewhere else. His heart? She doesn’t know.
Snap out of it. There’s work to do, she tells herself.
Ezra-not-Ezra doesn’t exist. He can’t be traced. He can’t open a bank account or use a credit card.
Jasmine doesn’t know his real name, nor does she care. He’s a Fist operative; she’s the cutout between him and Marina. Marina is the cutout between the Fist and everything else.
She brings him cash. Supplies, sometimes. Like that time a few weeks ago when she delivered a Semtex charge and other goodies. Marina charges a fee. Jasmine gets a cut. So what if some children and old people die?
Out-of-the-way make-out spots.
Back alleys.
Department-store fitting rooms.
Bus stations.
All perfect dead drops.
Today’s is a seedy motel room in Tel Aviv’s Hasan Arfa area near Yitzhak Saadeh Street, a warren of tin shacks and garages overrun by drug users and prostitutes. Hasan Arfa is Algazi territory. People here make a living of not noticing other people’s business.
The room smells of stale air, cigarette smoke, hashish, trash. There’s an old mattress on the floor, no sheets. Yellowed curtains cover a grime-stained window. The wallpaper’s peeling off the walls—what little remains, anyway.
Ezra-not-Ezra is there. He’s sitting on the mattress, against the wall, his long legs curled in front of him, smoking. The cigarette looks like a toy between his hairy fingers. His boulder shoulders slouched, his eyes in a sort of melancholic reverie.
She stands next to him, throws down a wad of cash strapped together in a rubber band.
“This should see you through the week,” she says.
He looks up, his reverie broken. He stares at her with longing. Not the lustful ogling she’s used to. He’s a young killer, alone, grappling with what he’s done. He’s vulnerable. Lonelier than she is, at least. He’s available.
She takes off her shirt, pulls up her leather skirt, straddles him.
His eyes pop up in surprise. His body reacts immediately.
She takes off his shirt. She runs her hands over him. His big ripped frame. The muscles under his hair-covered olive skin. His shivering. His goosebumps. She can smell his need.
His hands, his mouth are inexperienced, clumsy, ardent, urgent.
“Slow down,” she says. “Is this your first time?”
“No,” he says. He gulps. His eyes swerve left.
Liar, she thinks.
His body, not Bloom’s. His sounds, his smells. So not Bloom’s. That’s why she wants him, why she needs him. She needs to know she can still do this, that she doesn’t care for Bloom as much as she knows she does.
She takes him.
They dress in silence when they’re done.
“Let’s not make this a thing,” she says after.
“Let’s not,” he says, as if he has any say on it.
But she fears he’ll be back. And she knows she won’t have him again. The whole ride back she feels dirty. Soiled. Used. Unsatisfied.
Those on the bus around her can smell the scent of dirty sex on her, from her.
So could Bloom, she fears.
When she gets to her apartment, she sees him on the couch, drink in hand, cheering for the Israeli finalist in the Judo World Tournament on the TV.
“Hey, Jazz,” he calls out.
“Hey, baby,” she calls back. She rushes to her bedroom.
“Where are you going?” he says. “Where’s my kiss?”
She ignores him. Turns on the shower and thanks her luck the water always comes out piping hot from the start.
Her bathroom fills up fast with steam. She feels the water burning against her skin.
“What’s the rush, Jazz?” he says. He’s standing outside her shower, puzzled.
“Sorry,” she says. “I had to wash away the bus smell. There was this woman sitting next to me. She smelled of garlic and hummus and whatnot. I just had to have a shower. Go back. Finish watching the match and I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’m done.”
He opens the shower door.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he says. He enters the shower, kisses her forehead.
“Stop. Get out, please,” she says. She takes a step back. The water falls between them.
“I’m, uh, I’m not up for it,” she says.
He looks her over. She feels his piercing amber eyes scanning her.
“Whatever you say, Jazz,” he says.
He walks out from the shower.
Minutes later, she hears him walk out the front door.
She rages, throws down shampoo, conditioner, assorted toiletries from the ledge to the floor.