He came back from work one morning to find she'd been to his room and left him a letter. He read it carefully. And then read it again to make sure he'd understood. She'd written that it does matter to her how he felt, and if it didn't why would she even bother to ask how he was feeling. She didn't want any physical contact. She didn't feel as though she loved him. That hit him the hardest. 'She didn't feel as though she loved him.' Christ, what else? 'She found it sad to see him like this. Like he was burying himself in the earth and not letting out the pain, the despair. That he didn't talk with anyone, only worked, ate and slept.' That summed it up fairly well.

He really was being reclusive. What else could he do? Try to pretend everything was OK? He re-read the letter once more. The first paragraph made more sense to him now. He remembered how sometimes he'd gone to touch or kiss her but she'd brushed him away saying something like, "No, don't do that," or "You know I hate that." His head had always been spinning as she'd left the room. 'Isn't there anything I can do right?' he'd thought.

He put the letter back in its envelope, put it down on the table then got undressed to take a shower and relaxed in the hot spray. It took some time to fall asleep. His thoughts were on the letter. What would he say to her next time they met? Maybe she wouldn't come round, not feeling too comfortable. He could accept that.

He'd received a letter from a friend in England, and ex-volunteer he knew. She said she'd be coming to the kibbutz for a holiday in a couple of weeks time. Maybe he could talk to her.