YAROK

Three men in a room. One at the computer, preparing his latest book, on wilderness therapy, for publication. Another, reclining on a green sofa, speaks Russian on the telephone with his mother – discussing the merits of earthquake insurance. The third, sitting on another green sofa, arranged perpendicular to the first, dressed almost entirely in green, albeit three different shades, writes in a green notebook, a thick book of poetry open at his left side. The one speaking Russian, still on the telephone, sits up and stacks dirty but empty plates on the low coffee table, picking up olive stones. He finishes the conversation with his mother, a word of Hebrew creeping in “Tov,” and takes his stack to the kitchen where he accidentally drops it a small distance, a word of English creeping in “Shit.” The one at the computer uses the telephone now it is free. He speaks Hebrew. The word “Tov” is in evidence, as is the word “Epilepsia.” He leans back in his chair as the one from the kitchen brings him a small handled glass filled with red tea – a sweetened Bedouin brew. He finishes his conversation, hangs up and taps his papers loudly in frustration. He has been at the computer for days. Deadlines. The third one, still sitting on the second green sofa, still writing, decides to stop and drink tea