#ronesti

i couldn’t get ronit or esti out of my head so i edited disobedience, go follow my insta @fvckingsvpreme

song: leave your lover by echoes

pairing: ronesti

It had been three years since I left Stamford Hill, three years since I left that melting pot of stress, coercion and sin, three years since I had spoken to Esti. A few months afterwards, when I had processed everything that happened in those short weeks, I tried to reconnect. I called Dovid but he had clearly moved house or had his phone disconnected, either way I couldn’t get through to him. I subscribed to a monthly newsletter made for parents of the Bais Yaakov school that Esti taught at, but it was useless and terribly written. I had even sent emails to Fruma and Moshe Hartog, but the ones they replied to were short and uninformative. Moshe had kindly signed off his last email with ‘…and don’t contact us again’. At that point I was just relieved that I didn’t have any more elderly relatives to bury, and I gave up. I was done with the community, for good this time. Whatever happened to Esti and her child, it was her business and I was happy for her.

I know it sounds cliché, but I threw myself into my work. I was picking up shoots all over the country. My boss, Scott, would throw out job requests in meetings that were in California, Texas, Florida, Hawaii, Virginia. I flew all over, I shot all different types of people and I absorbed their stories, their backgrounds and their struggles in the images I was taking. I was capturing more than just their image; the camera lens saw something deeper. Their stories were conveyed in the slight of a smile, the squint of an eye or the twitch of a finger. With every snap of the shutter, and every development in the red room, I started to forget.

And it had been that way until I returned home from a shoot in North Carolina. I had been shooting four sets of identical twins with Billy the intern; we were the only two who had volunteered for the trip, as it was over Fourth of July weekend. Billy was arrogant, immature but strangely charming. He was in his early twenties and his father owned one of the magazines that always used our agency. I had come up with the idiom ‘Billy the intern’, and the rest of the office loved it, but we never said it to his face.

The eight twins we met with were all stunning in their own right, and each set gave an ironically unique twist to our photoshoot. It was a whirlwind trip, we landed in NC late on Thursday evening, I had a drink and went to my hotel room, though I’m sure Billy stayed up later because the next morning his eyes were red and puffy. We shot all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday and left for New York on Sunday evening. As irritating as he was in the office, Billy was professional and proactive on the trip, I made a note to tell Scott on Tuesday.

That Sunday night, after the longest taxi journey from the airport, the fireworks had already started. I’d grabbed myself a Chow Mein and cashew chicken from the Chinese takeout on the corner of Foster Street, stumbled home and crawled into my bed. My apartment was an airy, spacious studio; my sanctuary. The front door opened up into the living room and the newly decorated kitchen. My bedroom and en-suite were nestled away behind the furthest door to the right, and the study was, well it’s best not to mention the study. It was an abomination, a clattering mess of everything I’d given up on for the past… however long I’d lived here. I daren’t go in there until I have an entire, undisturbed week to myself, thirty black bags and unrelenting willpower.

I was scrolling mindlessly through Twitter, shoveling noodles into my mouth when it happened. A little blue notification in my messages popped up. It wasn’t rare that this happened, my name had been getting out there. I had been making an impact in my field, and only a few months back I had been nominated for, and won, the ‘Female Photojournalist of the Year’ award, so naturally offers were rolling in. I clicked on the blue circle and almost choked on my Chow Mein. It was a message from @EstiKuperman.

Hello Ronit.

That was it. That’s all she’d written. Christ, what do I say back to that? Was it definitely Esti? What if someone was playing a joke on me? I clicked on the profile; no photo, no bio, no tweets, nothing. By the time I’d put my food on the floor, another message had popped up.

I’m not sure how this works. I hope these messages send.

They were sending Esti, I thought. They were definitely sending. I sat there for a few minutes, the fireworks outside picking up their pace, exploding in the night sky. I typed and retyped and retyped messages back. In the end, I settled with:

Hello Esti, long time no speak! I see you’ve entered the twenty-first century!

I waited, phone in hand, for half an hour. The news on the television rolled over and I heard the same headlines again and again. An hour, two hours passed. The fireworks had stopped, but I still heard shouting and laughter on the street. Where had she gone? I clicked on the message I had sent; ‘Sent’. I checked my watch, if she was in London, she would have sent her first message at 2:03am. What was she doing up at that time? She must have fallen asleep by now. I rested against my pillow and thought that I had better sleep too. I turned over and closed my eyes, the television glare filled my room with light and the smell from the Chinese misted the air. I don’t know at what point I fell asleep, but I know that after three years my head was suddenly filled again with Esti.

I woke up the next day, my mouth was gluey and tasted rancid. But before brushing my teeth, I grappled for my phone. Still no messages. Did I dream it? I followed the trail to my message folder, and there they were. Sitting there, staling like bread with each minute that passed. Maybe it was a prank, someone from Stamford Hill playing a joke on me. What an idiot I was to think Esti would contact me, on Twitter of all places. I scowled at myself and peeled out of bed and into the shower. With the hot water pouring over my head and running down my back, I thought about what I needed to do that day. I needed to get groceries, upload the photos from NC, edit, send some emails, linger over the messages from Esti some more, because let’s be honest, I was definitely going to do that.

The whole day was spent trying to run errands with a constant hook in the back of my neck. I couldn’t pick up a bag of tomatoes in the grocery store without feeling phantom vibrations and checking my phone. I got home, made a salad and forced myself to put my phone away. I was chewing on spinach and becoming engrossed by the photos of the twins when my phone buzzed, for real this time. I leapt across the sofa for it, but it was a text from Billy.

Did you take my 17-85 lens?

I sighed with disappointment and then again with frustration. I pulled my camera bag to me and rooted through the compartments. I was about to send an angry text back accusing Billy of not taking care of his things when I saw two 17-85 lenses sharing one space in my bag. One of them had a peeling white label on, with the initials ‘B.T’ scribbled on in biro.

Yes, sorry. Must have picked it up by accident. I can bring it in tomorrow.

He replied instantly.

I’m away this week, going to Fort Lauderdale with fam. Can I swing by and grab?

Of course he was.

Sure, I’m Apartment 10, 837 Foster St.

Cool, thanks. I’ll leave now.

Billy showed up in fifteen minutes, and I was feeling sorry for myself, so I invited him inside. We looked over the photos together and drank wine. We talked, and he distracted me from my other intruding thoughts. His long legs stretched out from the sofa and onto the rug, and his upper body was turned towards me. I could smell his cologne spreading through my apartment. I decided to cut off our drinking after the third glass. I was susceptible to making terrible decisions, and I felt this sliding towards something I’d regret in the morning.

‘What time are you off in the morning?’ I asked, whilst clearing the glasses and bottles away...