a matter of faith

The soldier slides his assault rifle off his shoulder and eyes the man of god. “Rabbi,” he says, ” really. What are you doing in the army? You’re a holy man, a man of peace.”

The rabbi laughs. “Don’t make too much of it. I’m just a comfort mechanism for people who believe in adult imaginary friends.”


“I don’t know — is it a good idea to be real? I don’t think so. Be as fake as possible.”

sweet nothings

Fervently: “I love you.”

Indulgent silence.

“And you . . . tolerate me. Oh, how I lust to be tolerated.”

Stay here with me.

Four words.

There’s no wish more elemental, or more unlikely to be granted.