The Glass of Arak
"At a Haifa bar, strangers Dalia and Amir share a bottle of arak—and discover that some connections form faster than ice dissolves in anise."
The Glass of Arak
The bar clung to Haifa's German Colony, old stone walls sweating in summer heat. Dalia sat alone, watching arak cloud in her glass, when someone took the next stool.
"Mind sharing a bottle?"
She turned to find a man her age—handsome, disheveled, with the look of someone running from something.
"Why should I?"
"Because drinking alone is sad, and you don't look like a sad person."
"Maybe I am tonight."
"Then let's be sad together." He signaled the bartender. "Bottle of arak. Two glasses. And whatever she's having."
The arak flowed, clouding and clearing, clouding again. They talked—about nothing, then everything. He was Amir, architect, just ended a relationship. She was Dalia, doctor, avoiding a family dinner.
"Why avoid?" he asked.
"Because they'll ask about marriage and I'll have nothing to say."
"Nothing to say because no prospects, or because you don't want to?"
"Both. Neither." She drained her glass. "Because I'm thirty-four and tired of explaining why I haven't found someone perfect yet."
"Perfect is overrated." His eyes met hers. "I just want someone who makes the arak taste better."
"And does it? With me?"
"Best I've ever had."
They stumbled to his apartment, arak-brave, both knowing this was a terrible idea.
"I don't do this," Dalia said as Amir pressed her against his door.
"Neither do I."
"So why—"
"Because you make me want to be someone who does." He kissed her. "Tell me to stop."
She pulled him closer instead.
They made love with arak still burning in their blood—urgent, messy, honest in the way only strangers can be.
"Ya Allah," Amir groaned, inside her. "You feel like—"
"Don't finish that sentence." She wrapped around him. "Just keep moving."
He did. They climbed together, chasing something neither expected to find. When Dalia came, she bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. Amir followed with her name on his lips—surprised, like he'd just learned something important.
"Stay," he said afterward. "For breakfast. Or whatever comes after."
"This was supposed to be one night."
"It was. Now it's morning." His smile was soft. "New rules apply."
"What rules?"
"The ones where I ask for your number. Where we get coffee instead of arak. Where we see if this was accident or fate."
"You believe in fate?"
"I believe in you. Right now. Is that enough?"
Dalia looked at this stranger—not perfect, not planned, completely unexpected.
"Na'am," she said. "But I'm choosing where we get coffee."
"Deal."
Outside, Haifa was waking, and in Amir's apartment, something that started as escape was becoming arrival.
Some glasses of arak, it turned out, changed everything.