It's Jerusalem in summer. I am walking from Zion Square towards Rivlin St., although it looks nothing like - in my dream, I think I've dreamt of Nahalat Shiv'a looking like this before. I am wearing white linen pedal pushers and a baggy white tunic - the pretentious sort of hippy clothing I would never wear, but then, I'm going to pay a visit to the trendy new place that just opened and that everyone's been raving about. I'm on show.

Oh, and I'm smoking a cigar. A huge cigar. It must be about as thick as my wrist, it smells wonderful, and the cold, slimy bit of it that's been chewed up in my mouth is elongated and comforting like a grotesque nipple.

He is standing outside his new restaurant - it is obviously him although I've never seen him before. He has a moustache. He is impressed and intrigued by my cigar, as I knew he would be. We talk. He is at first aloof, playing it cool.

We go behind the building to a small courtyard, and I sit on a chaise longue. I cross my ankles very deliberately. We kiss, or he kisses me, and I caress his hair condescendingly. We resurface some time later, I'm not sure what happened but I suddenly notice my cigar is a lot shorter than it was. He is making declarations of undying love, he's dropped his macho act altogether - I am amzaing, unique, fantastic, I am Aphrodyte, Helen, Bathsheba, Tamar. His lif will never be the same again, he is devoted to my worship and will never look at another woman.

I pull my clothes back together around me and check the end of my cigar to make sure it is still lit.

A door opens a light floods over us. It is my mother, herself swathed in a somewhat Classical looking white towel or robe. She is washing her hands in the sink. I swing my legs to the floor. My dreaming self is momentarily alarmed, my dreamed self not a jot.

Oh, hi mom. I was wondering where you've been. Yeah, it's this way, let's go.

We go.