Esther couldn't decide which of her boyfriends she most wanted to keep: the Jew, the Christian or the Muslim. The Israeli, her mother in Tel Aviv would of course approve of at last, and he was rich, a good provider, would put bread on the table at Passover and beyond and all that. But he was an indifferent lover. The Palestinian -- broke and an artist, but astounding in bed, taught her words of pleasure she'd never found in her own tongue. Yet, he'd keep her up arguing about the Intifada, and like her was quick to anger. The Christian was somewhere in the middle; thoughtful but often dull, sincere, decidedly middle-class. Esther had trouble juggling her schedule to keep all of her options open. At least she could wait a few more years, she was only thirty. She hated having to choose.