WHY I DIDN’T MARRY DAVID

PART ONE

 “On that note,” David would say when he wanted to close a conversation, “I should get going. I have to (fill in the blank).” There was always something that demanded his attention, giving him an excuse to end our meandering telephone conversations. We talked about politics, philosophy, and what was happening in our own lives. The conversations were always pleasant, not too threatening, and enjoyable—until he was ready to hang up, which, “on that note,” we did.

I met David at a singles Shabbat program in the late 1980s. “Meet like-minded religious twenty/thirty-something from all over Israel in a pastoral setting,” the poster advertised. Sounded great to me. I went with a sense of anticipation, mixed with a little anxiety.

At dinner I found myself sitting across from David. The conversations were always pleasant, until he was ready to hang up. He was smart, not bad looking, and had a real British sense of humour. After the meal ended, we continued talking for over an hour. Despite our different backgrounds—I’m from Los Angeles, he’s from London—we had a lot in common. I lived in Jerusalem and he in Ramat Gan, about an hour apart.

We ate lunch together too, and seudah shlishit, the third meal. Saturday night, when everyone was saying their goodbyes, David approached me. After some small talk, he said, “Uh, why don’t we exchange phone numbers?” I gave him my business card, and he wrote his number on a small slip of paper.

Two full weeks later, David called. He had ordered a book about dreams from a bookstore in downtown Jerusalem, and he just got notified that it had arrived. Would I like to meet him the next day at the bookstore?

By Jolie Greiff