Free Esther's Sling by Ben Brunson

as he struggled with school. He had his business classes and he grappled with the added burden of taking English courses during that first semester to gain mastery over a language that his father had taught him at home, but that had been buried beneath the onslaught of Hebrew in school.
    The email he opened on the night of December 10, 2000 , had come earlier that afternoon while he was in the library studying for an exam. It came from a close friend and he still remembered every word of it to this day. His soul mate, the woman he knew he would marry once he was settled back in Tel Aviv, was involved with another man – an older attorney. She was “in love,” the email went on to say. Amit’s friend could not stand the thought that Amit was in the dark when all in their circle of friends back home knew what was happening. Amit had called her four times that night, each call fueled by more alcohol. Each call reaching the voicemail of her cell phone. Each call growing angrier, the accusations of betrayal becoming harsher and cutting deeper.
    He did not sleep that night and by the time an email arrived from her at 3 a.m. his time, all his senses were impaired. But he could read it well enough to know that his plans were in ruins. He drank until he passed out that night, missing his exam. It had taken all of his charm and a faked email to convince his professor that his grandmother had unexpectedly passed away that Sunday night. The ruse worked well enough for Amit to reschedule his accounting exam and continue his studies at Duke. But the wounds to his heart and his pride had never healed. And as a new year neared, he knew that he had to get his mind off the subject to avoid ripping the scabs open yet again.
    Amit emerged from the restroom to sounds of laughter and the sight of two perfectly formed women, both in jeans and very tight tops. “There he is,” exclaimed Dov, stretching his right arm out towards his friend as his left arm held tightly to his girlfriend. Amit walked over to be embraced into a huddle. “This is my best friend, Amit,” he said enthusiastically to the two women. “This is Nava.” Amit shook the hand of Dov’s girlfriend, who looked every bit the sex machine that Dov had described earlier. “And this is the gorgeous Enya.”
    Amit extended his hand, but Enya stepped to him and hugged him. She had a big smile. “Yo u are as handsome as Dov said.”
    Her auburn hair and blonde highlights , combined with her green eyes, made her beauty as exotic as it was instantly hypnotic to Amit. The Mossad agent was happy to have three beers under his belt. His natural reticence was on holiday. “Well I have to say Dov did a terrible job describing you. He said you were gorgeous, but anything short of beautiful and intoxicating is simply insufficient.”
    “See, I told you Enya,” said Dov. “Watch out for this guy.”
    Fifty minutes of food, wine and a round of vodka shots followed. Amit Margolis soaked in this 26-year-old with a five-foot-seven-inch frame that carried 118 perfectly distributed pounds. But what surprised Amit was that the beautiful woman in front of him had a mind to match her looks.
    As midnight approached, Amit was on the balcony with Enya as Dov and Nava came out, each holding two crystal champagne flutes with the contents of a newly opened bottle of Veuve Clicquot Brut. In the background, the television announced a countdown to midnight. Amit and Enya each took a glass of champagne in hand. “Five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year!” Dov shouted, his judgment and volume filter now impaired significantly. “Shanah Tovah,” replied Nava. All four took a sip of champagne and Dov and Nava immediately wrapped themselves in a passionate clinch.
    Enya did not wait for Amit to make his move. Her two years of service in the IDF following high school had taught her more than just how to shoot and strip a M-16 rifle; it had given her self-confidence and the assertiveness that came with