Iran is ruining Avi’s love life, and if that sounds like an overstatement, it’s only because you haven’t tried to romance someone who keeps one ear tuned for the Home Front Command alert like it’s the chorus of a particularly rude Eurovision entry.

Avi is 43. He lives in Holon, which is the kind of place that usually concerns itself with traffic circles, school WhatsApp groups, and whether the bakery on the corner has rugelach left by Friday afternoon. He has two kids, Daniel and Simona aged 12 and 10, and a beautiful wife called Maayan, whose age shall not be mentioned because, in a marriage, some facts are like glass shelves. Technically useful. Best left untested.

Four weeks into the war, Avi discovered a new strategic reality. Maayan will not, under any circumstances, succumb to what he calls “the natural charms of her husband.” These charms include a slightly heroic willingness to take out the trash, a tender way of saying “I’ll do it” when the Wi-Fi drops, and the ancient seductive ritual of bringing home the right oat milk without being asked.

But Maayan is afraid of being caught mid-act by a ballistic rocket attack.

Not “after,” not “before,” not “adjacent to,” not “nearby.” Mid-act. The fear is very specific. It’s the kind of fear that has a storyboard. It has camera angles. It has Avi, at his most human and least dignified, frozen like a startled meerkat, while a siren wails and the building does that tiny shudder that turns every conversation into a prayer. Nothing kills a mood like a reminder that your ceiling might decide to participate.

Now, some people respond to danger by........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)