Elie sat on the edge of the futon, parallel with his nipples, her tiny ass resting against his ribcage.
She was startled by his response, so hostile and deflated. A minute ago they had been trying to have sex, she was trying to be tender, didn’t embarrass him or even make a big deal out of it.
‘But what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Do you have any more pot left?’
‘A little, but I want to save it.’
She rested her hand on his chest but he pushed it away.
‘I want to go to sleep,’ she announced. ‘Do you mind sleeping on the futon in the salon?’
He got up, wordless, defiant, and walked over to the futon. Elie hardly slept that night, and in the morning he was bitter again.
‘Do you have any money?’
He was pacing around her small cluttered apartment, looking at the floor, and peeling back the rugs, frantically clawing at her glass tabletop searching for a shekel or a few agurot. He found nothing.
‘No, I don’t have any money.’
‘I need money.’
‘Well, I can’t help you, and I really have to get going. I’m late for work, and you can’t stay here.’
‘Fine, fine. We’ll talk later.’
It had been a week since hearing from Scar boy, and Elie was fine with this. She continued to go about her life, going into work late, still deliberating whether to return to the States, meeting friends at cafés. There was no hope anymore of a serious romantic relationship in the