The lake was large, to the naked eye. At first glance, there was only a horizon in the distance, and you could not see the end of the lake. But if you would squint real hard, you could just make the outline of Lebanon. The enemy. We don't ever cross the lake. They call it the Sea of Galilee, the Americans do. But the Israeli's aren't fooled; we know it isn't a sea; smaller than even the smallest lakes in America, it is not a sea, and never will be. Jesus walked on water in the Kinneret lake; he did not have to walk far to spread his influence in Muslim countries. Some say that Jesus walked on water in the Jordan river, which shares water with the Kinneret. It will never be a sea.

This was one year before our dear friends, and their daughters, 3, and 9, already messed up in the head, witnessed a bombing in Tiberius, the city only five miles or so from the Kibbutz that bore the name of the Kinneret lake, while on their afternoon swim in the "shores" of the lake. It was not their first bombing. It was not their last bombing, and we all thanked god, and sometimes even Jesus (he did walk on water, after all) that it was not their last bombing.

I will not fool myself, and others, and say it was during a period of peace. There never was peace. And the Kinneret Lake was never the Sea of Galilee.

But we were fearless, and we felt such a freedom that the oppressing flag of America, our true country, could never have provide for us.

I do not remember the day that I met her. I was staying at my mother's friend's house. She was my mother's friend's husband's niece. She was a family friend, I suppose. My parents thought of it that way.

She was the definition of Israeli. Her name, to start off, Yael. You couldn't get more Israeli then that. Her hair was originally brown, but from constantly dyeing it red, it turned the color of copper, but only starting halfway down her scalp. She wore earrings that jingled when she walked, and she wore rings on her fingers. Sometimes I swear it was her that Jerry Garcia wrote about. She was the perfect little Janis Joplin. The perfect Israeli. Except she couldn't speak a word of Hebrew.

I was alone, as I was every year. And so she took advantage of that, and two in the morning was just the beginning of the night.

We defied age. I remember when we snuck into the local club. Bacardi Breezer, always watermelon flavored, and the music infested our souls. We danced, and chased the morning away, just an hour more, ignoring the rising sun. We came into the club barefoot. We left the club, our feet adorned with vodka and little pieces of glass, and soreness.

When we walked outside, the sun now at eye level to us, the morning mist that had become an Israeli trademark soothed our feet. And we shivered, as the thick layer of sweat on us turned ice cold. It was sweet relief. Israeli mornings, always cold; colder than New York in winter; I swear to you.

She was a photographer. Her tiny hands, fingers short and stubby, always decorated by rings on every finger, were perfect for wrapping around the lens, and seeing, and capturing perfection. I remember one day, after she smoked some hash with some cute guys she called me up from her grandparent's apartment and told me she was going to take pictures. And I was going to be her model. I dug through my suitcase; ignoring the bathing suits, and shorts, and I picked out the sexiest outfit I could find. Part of me hoped; however, that clothes would not stay on. She was an artist, after all.

She visited often, at my mother's friend's house. She was there so often, that she slept there half the time. And half the time I crossed the tiny garden, turned right, then left, and slept at her grandparent's place. When she was over, Cohi, my mother's friend was always constipated. And lord, she smoked like a sailor, I swear. We tried to giggle quietly, when she locked herself in the bathroom and attempted to shit while smoking off a pack. But after half an hour our stomachs permanently hurt with laughter, and Pixie, the stray cat they picked up, scratched us playfully, joining in on the fun.

There wasn't anything to do, usually. But there was a stereo, and CD's. It took us a while, sorting through all over the Israeli and Arabic music, and classical CD's to find what we wanted. Jimi Hendrix. And Bob Marley. That was all we needed.

We would turn the CD's up, as high as it could go. It wasn't just loud. Loud is for pussies. It was full volume. It was so fucking loud that those old people living next door complained. And we would dance. I always tried to impress her. We danced closely, no such thing as too close. Foxy Lady, she was. And so we danced to that song. And when it was over, we danced to it some more. And more. Foxy Lady, indeed.

We would go to the little one's preschool playground, in the afternoon when all the little children in their summer dresses were gone, and we would smoke those Indian cigarettes I had bought for fifty cents.

I remember the day Cohi and her husband, went off on a date that they deserved after taking care of their children (the little rascals, I swear they were the most fucked up kids ever). This was our chance, to go wild. To get drunk, and smoke everything, and to be rebellious, and to take advantage of the fact that we were beautiful, and that two in the morning was honestly just the beginning of every night.

We raided the fridge, looking for Bacardi Breezers (watermelon flavor only!) and found one. Lemon flavor. That'll do, I suppose. So we went out on the porch, a pack of Camels, a yellow lighter and a lemon flavored Bacardi Breezer between us, and yeah we were pretty cool I guess. She had her camera. She took a picture of me, a cigarette between my lips, and I was wearing a tank top, and my bra strap was falling down, and my lips were bruised. And I wish my lips were bruised for any other reason besides a cold sore.

When Cohi and her husband (Yael's uncle), came back from their date, it was 2:30 in the morning.

Yael asked if we could go out. I was oblivious. They said yes.

We always walked barefoot, even in the dead of night. We knew it was stupid, but I guess we just assumed that the scorpions and snakes that frequented the warm pavement would scatter as they heard our bare feet smacking against the pavement. Because we were the shit. After all, I would say, I am a Scorpio. The queen of scorpions.

We ended up in front of the community pool.

"Yael? What are we doing?" She didn't answer. She just took off her pants, and threw them over the fence. I could hear her yellow lighter fall out of the pocket. She swung herself over the fence, and jumped. I followed. She stripped down; not even leaving on her underwear or bra, and dove into the pool. And it made a magnificent splash. But even back then, when two in the morning was only the beginning of the night, and I was fearless, I was scared of being caught. Naked. Swimming. But I didn't let her see that. So I stripped down, and jumped in (never having been able to perfect a dive). And we were skinny dipping. But we weren't skinny.

She laughed towards my direction, and started swimming. I followed.

I caught her by the middle, and suddenly I felt like we were a pair of sixteen year old boys, horsing around, on the verge of discovering new feelings for each other. Just subtract one or two years, and switch the genders. Nothing came out of it. We had a lot of difficulty climbing over the fence, but after 30 minutes of trying, and two pairs of ripped underwear later, we succeeded.

We walked, not in silence, for in our eyes nothing awkward happened. After all, two in the morning was just the beginning of the night.

"Shit" she said, "I forgot my lighter".

"No, no, no, Yael, we are not going back. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow." I grabbed her by the waist, and we danced home to the old naïve tune. Nothing ever came out of it.

Four months later, and the scenery changes. The streets of New York. I remember she came all the way to Penn Station to pick me up.

We were on the subway, the One, and we had half an hour or so to spare before we reached Riverdale, the Bronx. She was already drunk. I knew it because her laugh went beyond perfect, and she stumbled a bit. And because she told me she was.

"You know, I always wanted to hook up with you" Her index finger ran down my low cut shirt. She giggled again; her laugh was always stoned, and half assed. Sometimes I wish I could laugh like that.I always imagined that making love with Yael would be like a game. Her index finger would run down my low cut shirt (I always wore them in her presence) and she would giggle. Just like she did now. And then she would lean her face to mine, and almost as if by accident she would start kissing me. She wouldn't break the kiss to giggle, rather it would be absorbed in my mouth.

I always imagined that being close to Yael would mean everything that the summer did. It would mean hash, and vodka, and watermelon Bacardi breezers, and camels, and Indian cigarettes.

I imagined it would be about defying age, and laws, and being free. I always imagined that we birds, flying side by side.

"I've always wanted to kiss you too. I wasn't sure if you liked the chicks." What a fucking lie. I always knew she liked chicks, and dicks. Nothing came out of it. Fast forward to two am that night, and one of her friend's house or something, and through a drunken haze her lips did meet mine. They tasted like Grey Goose and orange juice. She did not laugh. My lips burned in phantom pain, when she left the room. Nothing ever came out of it. The sky is infinite, and I watched in regret as she flew away. If only I could have caged her, I thought. But I never really wanted to cage her, to have her. To cage her would mean she would cease to be Yael. So whenever I saw her again, at those crazy parties, it was always her friends' I kissed. And she remained far away.