Contributor: Elyk S. Von Ire
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Jon’s drunk again. Swaying at the table. Willing his eyes to stay open. Hebrew swirls in the air around us with the smoke. Jon stares forward. His eyelids are anchors that tow his head down with them. He snaps it back up and looks around. Again, he stares. He nods.
The three Israelis are either too stoned or too wrapped up in their own
conversation to notice Jon’s slumping head or closing eyes.
But I’d never be able to tell for sure. I don't speak Hebrew either. Maybe they are discussing it ad nauseum.
Jon nods. His eyes closed. When he opens them, slowly, he looks at me. His eyes are glistening. He opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t. His eyes rest on the bottle of rum, it's triumphant last inch still at the bottom.
He grabs the bottle and turns the label towards him. I assume he is staring, not reading. His hand slips a little and the bottle wobbles, then rights itself.
Jon leans back in his white, plastic chair. On two legs, against the wall, he looks up through closed eyelids.
Suddenly, he snaps his head forward and stands up. Again, I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. The Israelis look at him, conversation on pause for one pregnant second, then turn back to one another with bouncy, guttural conversation.
I wonder what Jon’s thinking about.
I wonder if he's going to be whistling in bed like my dad used to, his iPod speakers on all night, music coming through the paper thin walls to my room.
Like last night.
But we were on mushrooms last night, so maybe that had something to do with it. That Irishman, I tell you. Quite an influence.
I look up from my reverie and Jon is nowhere to be seen. I’m not about to venture from my hammock, so I start to wonder what the Israelis are talking about.
I know two of them. The guys. Besides Jon we’re all in our early twenties. Gal and Eron are fresh from mandatory military service, and I met them and Jon a couple days earlier in La Cieba, just a quick ferry ride from the island.
The third Israeli is the girl I never officially met. She’s been at the hostel for awhile now, at least a couple of days. I saw her at a different hostel back in Guatemala too, so I recognize her. Attractive people, Israelis, that’s hard to deny.
Cool accents too.
Goddamn I miss Emily.
Jon has resurfaced. He peers out the door, leaning heavily on the
frame. He looks at me.
"Diving man," he says, managing to keep his eyes open almost the whole time he speaks.
I nod. Diving indeed Jon. I think to myself as he sinks back into his room.
- - -
Elyk S. Von Ire is from Minneapolis. He is currently working on his first novel. He thinks that you are just great.
- -
Jon’s drunk again. Swaying at the table. Willing his eyes to stay open. Hebrew swirls in the air around us with the smoke. Jon stares forward. His eyelids are anchors that tow his head down with them. He snaps it back up and looks around. Again, he stares. He nods.
The three Israelis are either too stoned or too wrapped up in their own
conversation to notice Jon’s slumping head or closing eyes.
But I’d never be able to tell for sure. I don't speak Hebrew either. Maybe they are discussing it ad nauseum.
Jon nods. His eyes closed. When he opens them, slowly, he looks at me. His eyes are glistening. He opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t. His eyes rest on the bottle of rum, it's triumphant last inch still at the bottom.
He grabs the bottle and turns the label towards him. I assume he is staring, not reading. His hand slips a little and the bottle wobbles, then rights itself.
Jon leans back in his white, plastic chair. On two legs, against the wall, he looks up through closed eyelids.
Suddenly, he snaps his head forward and stands up. Again, I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. The Israelis look at him, conversation on pause for one pregnant second, then turn back to one another with bouncy, guttural conversation.
I wonder what Jon’s thinking about.
I wonder if he's going to be whistling in bed like my dad used to, his iPod speakers on all night, music coming through the paper thin walls to my room.
Like last night.
But we were on mushrooms last night, so maybe that had something to do with it. That Irishman, I tell you. Quite an influence.
I look up from my reverie and Jon is nowhere to be seen. I’m not about to venture from my hammock, so I start to wonder what the Israelis are talking about.
I know two of them. The guys. Besides Jon we’re all in our early twenties. Gal and Eron are fresh from mandatory military service, and I met them and Jon a couple days earlier in La Cieba, just a quick ferry ride from the island.
The third Israeli is the girl I never officially met. She’s been at the hostel for awhile now, at least a couple of days. I saw her at a different hostel back in Guatemala too, so I recognize her. Attractive people, Israelis, that’s hard to deny.
Cool accents too.
Goddamn I miss Emily.
Jon has resurfaced. He peers out the door, leaning heavily on the
frame. He looks at me.
"Diving man," he says, managing to keep his eyes open almost the whole time he speaks.
I nod. Diving indeed Jon. I think to myself as he sinks back into his room.
- - -
Elyk S. Von Ire is from Minneapolis. He is currently working on his first novel. He thinks that you are just great.
Author:
Elyk S. Von Ire
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