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She had to believe that. She had to have faith in that. If she didn't, then she couldn't believe in anything ever again, and her soul would be beyond saving.
“Whenever you get doubt-y, I'm going to fuck you. That seems to clear your head,” he suggested.
“Oh, well then, I have lots of doubts. You snore, I don't know if I can be with a person like that. And you do this weird thing when you eat, where you scrape your fork with your teeth. I think my mom will hate you, and I -,” she started rambling. He moved swiftly, rolling her onto her back and pinning her to the mattress.
“We need to work on your inhibitions. If you want me to fuck you, then just say it. Repeat after me – 'Tal, I want you to fuck me so hard, I won't walk right for a week',” he instructed.
“Tal, I want you to – wait, for a week!? I wanted to go sight seeing,” she complained, trying not to laugh.
“Whatever happened to my good girl? Who is this person? That's it, I'm going to teach you a lesson, Ms. -,” his voice stopped, and they stared at each other. He cleared his throat. “I can't call you that.” She nodded.
“I don't want you to call me that.”
“Your maiden name,” he said it as a statement, rather than a question, as he sat back on his heels.
“Duggard,” she responded while he picked up her left hand. She had put her rings back on when she'd gotten to Positano. Tal took them back off.
“Ms. Duggard, it's lovely to meet you,” he said, setting her rings on a night stand.
“Thank you, Mr. Canaan, the pleasure is all mine.”
“It's certainly about to be.”
Since she was now Ms. Duggard, Tal insisted that they go out on a real date, so he could get to know this woman.
“I hope she's not as neurotic as the last chick I banged,” he said as he got dressed. His luggage had been delivered late the night before.
“Oh? And who was that?” Misch asked, leaning close to the mirror while she did her eye makeup.
“Mrs. Rapaport.”
She threw a bar of soap at him.
They went on a day date, out to lunch at a fancy cafe. He got them a table on a balcony that sat over a cliff, looking out over the ocean. Misch breathed in the salty air, glad to be alive. Glad to not be thinking of what the next evening would bring.
“So, Ms. Duggard – Mischa – tell me more about yourself,” he insisted. She sipped at her tea.
“What would you like to know?” she asked back.
“You're very exotic, you know,” he told her. She blinked in surprise.
“Me? Boring old, insurance agent me!?” she exclaimed.
“God, you're annoying. You're not just an insurance agent, you twit, you're a woman, with tits and ass and legs for days and a smile that doesn't quit and a wit to match. Do you ever look at yourself?” Tal demanded. She blushed.
“No. Not really. Not anymore.”
“See? Annoying. What's your dad like?”
“My dad? He's awesome. Grew up in Kansas, then moved to Detroit to go to school. Met my mom, and the rest is history. He's my buddy, I love him more than anything,” she answered.
“What about your mom? Is she awesome?” Tal continued.
“Yeah, in a mom type of way,” Misch responded, working around the question.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“We don't quite get each other, you know? She's half Chinese, and her mom was super old school, and very strict. So here I am, this kinda mutt, a little Chinese, a lot German and Dutch, and all American. I wanted to dance and meet boys, she wanted me to study and become a brain stem surgeon, or something. She's super supportive and sweet, but it's kinda like, eh, I'm that kid to her,” Misch tried to explain.
“Chinese! I was guessing Puerto Rican,” Tal mumbled, his eyes wandering over her face.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your ethnicity. You look amazing, your parents were a good blend – there should be more Chinese-German-Dutch babies in the world,” he commented. She blushed again.
“Well, what about you, tall, dark, and verbally abusive? What's your deal?” she asked, leaning back as their waiter delivered their food.
“Me? Just a good ol' boy, raised in New York,” he replied. But she already knew that, from their many conversations.
“If you're gonna badger me with questions, you've got to give some stuff up, too,” she pointed out. He sighed.
“I was born in Jerusalem. My family moved to New York – Brooklyn. When I was thirteen, we went back to Jerusalem. When I was eighteen, I joined the Israeli Defense Forces,” he covered everything.
“So your parents are both from Israel?” she prodded. He shook his head.
“No. My mother was from New York, she's mostly Italian. Catholic, her parents were not happy when she decided to marry my very Jewish father. They forgave her when I was born, that's why my parents moved back to the states. But my dad hated it, and my mom didn't really care where we were, so we went back to Israel,” he elaborated.
“Oh. So when was the last time you were back in the states?”
“Never.”
“Huh?”
“I've never gone back. I didn't like it in America, never really had a reason to go back. Both my grandparents died, so there was no one left over there to visit. I was busy with the army, then busy with my job. When you get to see all different parts of the world, America isn't so great,” he told her. She scowled.
