Flashky and I buy two pitas with falafel and a pack of Davidoff cigarellos. "I'll take you to a special place to smoke them," he suggests. "Let's go to the smoking lounge at the Dizengoff Centre and sit with all the Emos."
This word is new to me.
"You know, the young kids who get their hairs straightened and lots of piercing in their faces. It's the biggest fashion trend now."
"Why are they called Emos?"
"Short for emotionals."
We climb through the massive downtown shopping center to one of its upper tiers, where a tiny roon is devoted to the smoking public. The chamber is decorated by many an ad for "Golf" cigarettes, clearly a sponsor of sorts, but the real decor consists of home-grown graffiti. Several kids, ranging in age between 13-16, are sitting there. They all fit the description of Emos down to the piearced cleavage. I take a photo of two of them, Michelle and Shani.
Then we head out into the night, to an art opening, where I bump again into downtown ex-lover (I get set back about two days in my process of forgetting her each time I see her, and I see her about once in every two days, so there really is very little hope), to the Minzar, that ancient Tel-Aviv pub, where I find myself repremending a friend who recently turned away a true companion: "You don't give love up! You don't give love up!"
And later: "Roam free, butterfly. Just take care of your butterfly heart."
The dark moon is high. Everyone is struggling. At the end of the night we're out having pizza on Allenby, with another friend sitting on the railing that graces the sidewalk, losing the good spirit that characterized his evening so far. His own failed attempt at a love story hurts him about thrice a day. Now comes the third time.
He's being quiet about it, but I know: He's an Emo, we're all such fucking Emos. Otherwise we wouldn't be singing "operator" in the middle of the street. Otherwise I wouldn't be giving each of my friends a goodbye hug that's meant, first and foremost, to comfort.