Sarah, a widowed Jewish woman, still elegant and remarkably fit for her age, was sunbathing on a quiet stretch of beach near Tel Aviv. The afternoon was warm, the sea calm, and — for once — the beach was nearly empty.

She was savoring the peace when she noticed a distinguished-looking man about her age strolling along the shore. He, too, was in good shape, dressed with quiet good taste, and carried himself with an easy, pleasant manner. He spread his blanket a polite distance from hers, sat down, opened a book, and began to read.

She stole a glance or two, smiled to herself, and decided a little conversation couldn’t hurt.

“Hello there,” she said warmly. “Enjoying the day?”

He looked up and smiled. “Very much. The sun, the sea — it’s a perfect afternoon. And you?”

“Perfect,” she agreed. “I love this beach when it’s quiet like this.”

They talked easily for a few minutes — the weather, the water, how rare it was to have the sand to themselves. Then she paused, leaned in slightly, and lowered her voice.

“Can I ask you something?” she said. “Are you circumcised?”

He blinked, caught off guard, but answered honestly. “No, actually. I’m not.”

She smiled sweetly and patted his hand. “Well,” she said, “then you’re not missing much.”