Swimming to The Sirens

The nightmare returns. Inside my car, flooded with water up to my elbows. When the doors open nothing flows out. When it’s closed I’m glugging up to my neck in waves. Is it leaking from the upholstery? I’m saturated. We’ll have to turn the car on its side, try to pour the water out.

There have been so many sirens, it’s hard to recount. This time I hear it, at the edge of earshot, blaring away. Not in my neighbourhood; the bell doth not toll for me. But the booms and the rattle of windows after the interception prove another projectile was launched – with hatred – and downed, in sweaty-palmed fear. After all, the dome can always miss.

I come back from a family visit, alight in North Tel Aviv, Dizengoff. A good twenty minute walk from home and the air is tense. It starts to rain fat heavy raindrops, I don’t have an umbrella. ‘You know what would make this even worse?’ I joke with myself.

As I pass a Thai restaurant with al fresco dining, the siren sounds. Of course it does. First low and warbling then high, a screech, an opera singer showing off her full range.

It’s like musical chairs: wherever we’re standing when the missile strikes, whatever we’re doing, now we stop. Walk fast or run slow towards the nearest shelter. In this case, a sex shop basement. I’ll spare you the details. We huddle against the cream stairwell walls, checking our phones for updates.

Water splashes in, somehow flecks of it tumble down into this sanctuary. A leak. When we’re bored and enough of these long-short moments have passed, the line trudges out into the evening we left behind, puts an arm on its shoulder to steady it, seats are still warm, blinking umbrellas reopen.

My boot sinks in a fresh puddle. We’ll have to turn the car on its side, try to pour the water out.