Ernesta met the Fideist in a bus stop in the City of the Crown. While they spoke of whores in Haifa, Russian soups and vaginal examinations, Ptolemy and Copernicus rolled the dice in Heaven. The Fideist healed hernias with a single touch. Dark circles under his Arabic eyes, he flew the flag of a forlorn fiancée. In Tel Aviv, the subject of his chivalrous obsessions: a horse-faced girl, sender of jelly worms and balsamic promises. Over endless bowls of liquefied affection flirtation flourished. And then the green balloon popped and Ernesta fled, leaving behind gentleness and an unopened box of condoms. Let that be a lesson to you for next time. Seduction finally came over a cup of tea. Tangled up in sheets and limbs, innocence was sold. She swallowed to a Celine Dione tune. He lay there, neutered and superficial, in a pool of immorality. Poor sucker. The god you trust, he does not trust you.
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