“A few months ago, I opened my rusty mailbox to find a blue-and-white envelope containing a gold plastic card embossed with my last name, and, above it, in flowery letters, Frequent Flyer Club Gold. I showed the card to my wife in a pathetic gesture, hoping that this sign of appreciation from an objective, outside party would soften her harsh opinion of me, but it didn’t really work.
“I advise you not to show this card to anyone,” she said.
“Why not?” I argued. “This card makes me a member of an exclusive club.”
“Yes,” my wife said, smiling that jackal smile of hers. “The exclusive club of people who have no life.”
So, OK. In the discreet, intimate confines of this book, I am willing to make a partial admission that I don’t have a life, at least not in the traditional, everyday sense of the word. And I admit that more than once in the past year I have had to read the stub of my plane ticket, which was nestled peacefully among the pages of my stamp-tattooed passport, to find out what country I was in. And I also admit that during those[…]”
Excerpt From: Etgar Keret. “The Seven Good Years.” Apple Books.