He Lost Faith
John A. Ward

We sat in the sidewalk café sipping our espressos because Woodeye refused to wear shoes and the Mocha Bean had a firm “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy inside the doors, but didn't enforce it on the street. It wouldn't
be so bad if he didn't clean his toenails with the toothpick.

“Woodeye, why don't you wear shoes anymore?”

“Because the guys tie my laces together when I'm asleep.”

“Why don't you wear boots?”

“Hah, I've heard about pulling somebody up by their bootstraps. They'll run my belt loops through the straps and call me Stumpy.”

“Then get yourself some pantyhose. Nobody will tie them together. They're already joined at the crotch.”

“Weren't the Siamese twins, Yin and Yang, joined together at the crotch?”

“Not permanently. They weren't identical twins. Yin was female and Yang was male. They were fraternal twins.”

“How could they be fraternal twins if they were opposite sexes? Doesn't fraternal mean brother?”

“True. I guess you could say they were twins in the siblical sense.”

“Isn't that incest?”

“If you insist.”

He stirred his espresso with his thumb. “I've lost faith in my fellow man.”

“You're hopeless. That will destroy you.”

“No, I never had faith in men, but it's women that destroy men.”

“Have you lost faith in women too?”

“Just one, the only one that matters, the only one who ever took an interest in me.” In the depths of despair, he broke his biscotti in half.

“Are you going to eat all of that?”

“No.” He gave me the larger piece.

“Who was she?”

“Her name was Enamorata.”

“That's a nice name, but is it real? It's an odd name.”

“That's what I called her. She never told me her real name.”

“What attracted you to her?”

“She came into my house the first time I asked. She told me how important I
was.”

“And then?”

“She wanted money.”

“What did you do?”

“I said, ‘How much?' She said, ‘How much do you have?' I gave her everything.”

“How much was everything?”

“Three dollars and fifty cents, I hadn't been to the bank that day.”

“Was it enough?”

“She said it would do.”

“And then?”

“She left me with this.” He pulled the crumpled copy of a religious tract from his portfolio. “She never came back.”

I took a long sip of my espresso and sighed.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“I'm trying to figure out how to tie your toes together.”

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John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can be found at http://boogerjack.blogspot.com/ .