t'avais décidé de rester ici, seule au bar du bowling, le temps de boire deux trois verres. tu devrais visiter bournemouth, au lieu de t'hydrater dans un bowling, mais après cette partie avec des amis à toi d'help yourself, t'avais juste besoin de te détendre un peu. (et ensuite refaire une partie, puis te détendre, et fumer une clope entre les deux) ils sont tous rentrés chez eux, toi t'as juste dit "non vous inquiétez pas, je reste un peu". perdue dans tes idées couleur pastel, y'a quelqu'un qui vient se poser à côté de toi, et commande une boisson. il (elle) fait des allers-retours toutes les dix minutes depuis au moins une heure, ça te fait rire. it's like the tenth time you come here, and everytime i look at you, you loose your bowling game. t'esquisses un sourire moqueur, lâchant un petit rire, rien de bien méchant. ça t'amusait bien de le (la) voir revenir à chaque fois, avec une tête de mort. mauvais(e) joueur(se) peut-être.

I felt exhausted. Trying to talk, trying to understand, trying to smile. It was fun, but it was mostly tiring, and I slowly started to feel, somehow, done. I needed sometime just for myself. I needed to let go all of my thoughts, my doubts. I needed to relax without having to stutter a few words of this completely unknown language every few minutes. And bowling seemed perfect. It was absolutely not my type of entertainement, and I couldn't stop myself from smiling when I thought about my family and friends back in Israel seeing me right now. I was pathetic. There were only groups of people. Friends, lovers, families. And here I was, with my almost inexistant experience in this game – or sport –, desperately trying to get some points although I knew it was near to being impossible.

Inexistant experience weren't the right words. I could reckon two times where I had played, and twice in the extremely kitsch bowling place of Haifa. The first time was for a birthday, some kind of lame party for teenage girls, drinking ice-cold fruit juices and wearing our most colourful eyeshadows and lip colours. I could only remember the birthday girl's stupid face – what was her name again ? Matilda ? Malka ? –, amazed as she ripped off the wrapping papers only to discover cheap nail polishes and boring books, probably some plain love stories she would read everynight dreaming of her future. The second time was a date in my late teenage years, maybe even more cringeworthy. It felt cool, not because we were doing something adult – which only teenagers did –, but because he was arab. It felt exotic, illegal, our own tiny secret. I was arab too, yes, but only half of me was. And my Israeli nationality always seemed to take over.

But despite these two times, let's be honest, I sucked at bowling. I just couldn't get any points. I finally started to surrender, making my breaks at the bar longer and longer. I would still get fruit juices, over and over again, because the point of my evening wasn't to get hammered, only to relax a little. I sat down next to a girl – she looked quite tiny actually, but something about her still made her look like an adult –, just slightly nodding at her. Some kind of silent greeting to avoid words. But she talked, and suddenly, it felt unavoidable. I just had to talk. Yet I only pulled a slight laughter, awkwardly turning my head to her in order to show her that that was my answer. That was it.

Spoiler:

c'était une belle fille aux cheveux cuivrés ou dorés, tu sais jamais. elle te dépassait d'au moins trois têtes (pas étonnant, tes gènes parlent d'eux-même, les femmes de ta famille n'ont jamais dépassé les un mètre soixante-cinq) un peu comme la beauté de ses yeux couleur océan agité qui en faisait tourner bien plus de trois, sûrement. elle commande quelques jus de fruit, et se contente de t'adresser un sourire amical en guise de réponse. t'arques légèrement le sourcil, elle se sent pas bien ? peut-être qu'elle comprend pas bien l'anglais ? c'est surtout toi qui n'arrive pas à te faire comprendre correctement sûrement, avec ta syntaxe un peu foireuse. tu tortilles nerveusement tes doigts dans la paume de tes mains, elle n'avait peut-être pas envie de te parler. malgré tout, tu tentes le tout pour le tout. don't worry, you can kick their ass, you'll see, i'll help you if you want to ! tu lui prends la main, en n'oubliant pas d'emporter son jus fraîchement acheté, et tu te tiens devant sa piste when is your turn ? tu doutes un peu de la qualité de ta phrase, mais elle devrait comprendre le principal. tu la regardes, un grand sourire aux lèvres, et t'attrapes une boule pas trop lourde ni trop légère que tu prends. okay, look. t'observes durant quelques secondes le bout de la piste, essayant de viser avec précision le centre, histoire que la boule ne tombe pas de façon malheureuse dans la rigole. tu prends une inspiration, et donne tout ce que tu as. hmmmm, all in all, don't look at me t'éclates de rire suite à ton immense échec. droit dans la rigole, une seule quille tombée. au moins, on pouvait toujours faire plus misérable que toi, mais c'est lamentable.

Spoiler:

i nod at her statement. yes, we are weird together. but weird in an awesome way. « okay ! two beers please. » i voice, way more confident than i was at the beginning of the evening. « they have to be, yes ! » my fingers delicately dance on the bar in rhythm with the music, some kind of lame repetitive american pop, the kind that i would listen to for hours as a teenager, hoping to one day escape my boring country, hoping to slip in the shoes of some other person, at least for a day. the girl's voice, as soft as silk or cotton, breaks the loud silence. panic. she wants to know more about me. « ah oh haha i not notice i speak in other language, yes. it is hebrew. » i blush, waiting for some kind of reaction. but she still stares at me with stars in her celestial eyes, as dark as the endless night, as if she expected more. « oh i am not of bournemouth, no. i am from haifa, israel ? you know ? well i am of israel and palestine. » yes, believe it or not. please don't ask how i feel about this fucking war. please don't. « your accent is also cute, i hear you are not from here !  of where are you ? tell me everything. » i stare at her in the creepiest way i can before bursting out laughing. there is something about her. something i can't quite understand. something so light-hearted that makes me feel aerial. i feel as if i was lost in the galaxies, all ties with earth cut, there is nothing to worry about anymore. even my accent doesn't seem to matter anymore when her face lightens up at my words. « by the way, my name is lior. you call me... well... lior is very short. » i laugh softly. « nice to meet you, cute-girl-that-is-so-bad-at-bowling-like-me. » i am almost tempted to wink at her, but i take control of myself again. okay, she might actually get scared. the bartender puts two glasses in front of us, and i sip mine slowly, enjoying the ice-cold drink. is it me or is it really hot in here ?