He looks at me.

I smile, but he looks away, pretending he couldn't see. But how could he not see me smiling at him when I'm standing right next to him?

He looks at me.

I say good morning, but he looks away, pretending he couldn't hear. But how could he not hear me when I always speak in a loud, happy voice?

I tap his arm while everyone is dancing.

'You okay?' I ask.

'Yeah, how are you?' he answers. He has the cutest accent.

We exchange smiles. Ten, nine, eight... he joins the crowd of dancing people.

I sit by the sea, watch people splashing around in the waves. He walks past. I watch his back get smaller and smaller. It's almost symbolic, as if his back will never get bigger again, only smaller, smaller, and finally disappear forever. The sea hits my feet with a gentle, warm wave. Stop fantasizing.

I stand alone in the company of my bags. The groups around me seem strange, unfamiliar. He walks up to me and falls to his knees.

'You drive me crazy,' he says.

'Please, keep in touch...'

He takes my hands, kisses them, looks into my eyes. I pull him back to his feet. His eyes meet mine again. Then he kisses me, passionately, the way I like it.

He walks past and I stare at him. He doesn't see. I shout his name. He doesn't hear. The next instant I hear their shout:

'TSARFATIM? ANAHNU PO!'

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A story I wrote while at Hashomer Hatzair World Movement camp in Israel. HH is a left-wing socialist zionist youth movement.

The guy described in this work was French (Tsarfatim is Hebrew for Frenchmen). 'Tsarfatim? Anahnu po!' is Hebrew too and means 'Frenchmen? We're here!'. That was the French people's shout. It was quite annoying. Yeah. Enjoy.

updated Aug 20 '11 by VictoriaPage