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Pet Snail
by Sam Vaknin
Nomi and I had a snail. We placed it in any empty ice-cream packing, on
a bed of lettuce. We took turns spraying it with water drops. Morning
come, Nomi would emerge from our bed, her face dishevelled, and
sleepwalk to enquire how the snail was doing. She rejoiced with every
black-rimmed bite, clapping her hands and drawing me to witness the
tiny miracle. She replaced the perforated leaf with a green and dewy
one about once a week.
At first, her minuscule charge concealed itself among the decaying
greenery. Nomi spent hours, patiently awaiting a revelation. Crowned
with a set of dark, huge earphones that I bought her, she pounded her
keyboard, keeping a lovat eye on the snail's abode.
When it finally emerged one day, the music stopped and she exclaimed
elatedly.
Later that year, I was sentenced to a prison term. On the way home,
courtroom echoes reverberated in the hushed interior of the car. Nomi
said: "Let's go somewhere before..." And I responded: "Let us go to
Eilat, to our hotel."
"A pity the jazz festival is over" - she frowned. "A pity" - I agreed.
At home, an air of doom, we packed a hasty suitcase and booked the
flight.
A thing I said reminded Nomi of the snail.
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