The music turns queer, distorted, choppy, sounding nothing like the well-worn Israeli psy-trance tracks that I know I set to play. It’s as if it’s being twisted through a time warp, so I’m hearing some beats and tones before the ones they follow.
Fortunately, I live not far from the hospital, and soon arrive in my crescent-shaped driveway, pulling in behind the RV and boat. I unravel the various locking mechanisms and punch in the alarm deactivation sequence.
Like an unwelcome long-lost lover who presumptuously returns and resumes residence without the tiniest accounting of possible changes in the interim, my alter ego has been pulling harder on the reins. Eager to pick up where he left off, diving into bed without noticing the new aftershave in the medicine cabinet or neckties in the closet. Ignoring the comprehensive remodeling the place has undergone in the past decade and a half, and the half-mad protests of the mistress: I have my own life, there’s no place for you here anymore…