Separation

On the way up, as we passed the place on the staircase where I had slipped earlier, Michael took hold of my sleeve once again. As if there was a danger of slipping again on that particular step. Through the blue wool, I could feel every one of his five fingers. He coughed drily and I looked at him. He caught me looking at him, and his face reddened. Even his ears turned red. The rain beat at the windows.
“What a downpour,” Michael said.
“Yes, a downpour,” I agreed enthusiastically, as if I had suddenly discovered that we were related.
Michael hesitated. Then he added:
“I saw the mist early this morning and there was a strong wind blowing.”
“In my Jerusalem, winter is winter,” I replied gaily, stressing “my Jerusalem
” because I wanted to remind him of his opening words. I wanted him to go on talking, but he could not think of a reply; he is not a witty man. So he smiled again. On a rainy day in Jerusalem in Terra Sancta college on the stairs between the first floor and the second floor. I have not forgotten.

He stopped reading and went out to the balcony. He lighted a cigarette, watching the smoke spiral into the cool night air.
He felt elated, alive, needing to talk to her.
He dialed her number, willing her to pick the call, waiting.

Her sleepy voice floated across their separation, making him smile.
He did not talk to her about what he had just read.
He sang, songs that he made up as he talked, picturising her face under the thin sheet, her face smiling, like he remembered.
He talked, not wanting her to reply.
Of summer, of the drive back home, of the lone bee that had droned into his apartment room.
He talked.
Without expectation, wanting the spell to last.
He talked till the words dried up, leaving his elation behind.
Happily, he hung up, her rhythmic breathing in his ears, knowing, that she had slept, a long time back.

(The italicised portion is an excerpt from 'My Michael' by Amos Oz)