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Authors: J.H. Carnathan
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continue to tumble out of my mouth.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.
She shakes her head, trying to stifle tears.
“Gah! No,” she says, snuffling. “It’s okay. It’s me. I hate that I’m like this.” She takes a small package of tissues out of her pocket. “I cry so easily—I happy cry, sad cry, angry cry. I’m always crying.”
I reach over, open the package, take one out, and offer it to her. She laughs a little.
“I’m sorry,” she says, very quietly. “I’m embarrassed. I’m not sure what to say.” She pauses as I say, “What did Adam say on the day before Christmas?”
She shrugs.
“It’s Christmas, Eve.” She laughs gently. I feel a distant sense of gratification at her show of vulnerability. I know she’s vulnerable, and that maybe she is warming up to me.
I smile and say, “I somehow knew you liked that.” I nod towards her bag.
She sees my glance and leans toward it before turning back to me. She removes the Good Book from her bag.
“You carry it around everywhere you go?” I ask, hoping to keep it light.
“It’s what gets me through most days,” she replies. Her whole demeanor shifts to serious.
“Oh,” I think quickly, “So…where do you work?”
She looks at me and I can tell she knows that I know she is avoiding the subject. After a few seconds she says, “Well...I’m very busy about half the time. I teach children how to sing at church,” she continues. “But I’m also a student and I run the choir practice at night.”
“I knew while you were singing a minute ago that you had some skill. You sing beautifully, even if it was hard to hear. I would really like to hear it again, if you don’t mind?”
“Sorry,” she says. “I have a fear of singing in front of strangers.”
“But you sing in front of a hundred people every Sunday, right?”
“Singing for one person and singing for a hundred are two different things,” she says. “Besides, when I’m in a choir, I imagine myself singing to the Lord.”
I notice myself smirking and feeling glad that I am not as naïve or gullible as her.
Noticing my patronizing smirk, she asks firmly, “What do you do?”
“I’m in sales,” I say. “At least at the moment.”
“At the moment? What is it you want to do instead?”
“Well, I like to write.” I try to swallow my words, to take them back.
“Oh!” she says, excitedly. “What do you like to write about?”
“I don’t know,” I respond. “So far I’ve just been dabbling.”
“Dabbling is the start of something,” she insists.
We both look at each other and for a moment, I see that she has let out a big smile towards me. I am lost in that smile. I can start and end my day with that smile.
“What were you looking for when you came on this blind date?” she asks. “I mean, you didn’t even have a face to go by.”
“That’s true,” I reply.
“I could have been repulsive,” she jokes.
“Well thank God, that wasn’t the case.” I see her blush as I look to her, knowing she is something special. “But not to sound too self-indulgent,” I say, “I want a girl that can surprise me.”
The woman nods thoughtfully. “What would be a good surprise for you, then?”
“She could give me a pack of candy for all I care.”
“That’s pretty sad. Who are you dating?” she asks.
I shrug sheepishly. We both laugh, but her laughter turns to sniffles.
“Don’t tell me your reason was the same as mine?” I sarcastically say to her.
“Sorry, I told you it’s a bad habit I have,” she says, wiping away her tears.
“It’s okay. Are you crying from something I said?” She looks down, as if holding back her words, then suddenly looks and says, “I wanted to find a face to call home. A person that will always be there for me and never leave me. It’s stupid thinking, isn’t it?”
I search my memory. A face to call home—the phrase reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what. It’s achingly
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.
She shakes her head, trying to stifle tears.
“Gah! No,” she says, snuffling. “It’s okay. It’s me. I hate that I’m like this.” She takes a small package of tissues out of her pocket. “I cry so easily—I happy cry, sad cry, angry cry. I’m always crying.”
I reach over, open the package, take one out, and offer it to her. She laughs a little.
“I’m sorry,” she says, very quietly. “I’m embarrassed. I’m not sure what to say.” She pauses as I say, “What did Adam say on the day before Christmas?”
She shrugs.
“It’s Christmas, Eve.” She laughs gently. I feel a distant sense of gratification at her show of vulnerability. I know she’s vulnerable, and that maybe she is warming up to me.
I smile and say, “I somehow knew you liked that.” I nod towards her bag.
She sees my glance and leans toward it before turning back to me. She removes the Good Book from her bag.
“You carry it around everywhere you go?” I ask, hoping to keep it light.
“It’s what gets me through most days,” she replies. Her whole demeanor shifts to serious.
“Oh,” I think quickly, “So…where do you work?”
She looks at me and I can tell she knows that I know she is avoiding the subject. After a few seconds she says, “Well...I’m very busy about half the time. I teach children how to sing at church,” she continues. “But I’m also a student and I run the choir practice at night.”
“I knew while you were singing a minute ago that you had some skill. You sing beautifully, even if it was hard to hear. I would really like to hear it again, if you don’t mind?”
“Sorry,” she says. “I have a fear of singing in front of strangers.”
“But you sing in front of a hundred people every Sunday, right?”
“Singing for one person and singing for a hundred are two different things,” she says. “Besides, when I’m in a choir, I imagine myself singing to the Lord.”
I notice myself smirking and feeling glad that I am not as naïve or gullible as her.
Noticing my patronizing smirk, she asks firmly, “What do you do?”
“I’m in sales,” I say. “At least at the moment.”
“At the moment? What is it you want to do instead?”
“Well, I like to write.” I try to swallow my words, to take them back.
“Oh!” she says, excitedly. “What do you like to write about?”
“I don’t know,” I respond. “So far I’ve just been dabbling.”
“Dabbling is the start of something,” she insists.
We both look at each other and for a moment, I see that she has let out a big smile towards me. I am lost in that smile. I can start and end my day with that smile.
“What were you looking for when you came on this blind date?” she asks. “I mean, you didn’t even have a face to go by.”
“That’s true,” I reply.
“I could have been repulsive,” she jokes.
“Well thank God, that wasn’t the case.” I see her blush as I look to her, knowing she is something special. “But not to sound too self-indulgent,” I say, “I want a girl that can surprise me.”
The woman nods thoughtfully. “What would be a good surprise for you, then?”
“She could give me a pack of candy for all I care.”
“That’s pretty sad. Who are you dating?” she asks.
I shrug sheepishly. We both laugh, but her laughter turns to sniffles.
“Don’t tell me your reason was the same as mine?” I sarcastically say to her.
“Sorry, I told you it’s a bad habit I have,” she says, wiping away her tears.
“It’s okay. Are you crying from something I said?” She looks down, as if holding back her words, then suddenly looks and says, “I wanted to find a face to call home. A person that will always be there for me and never leave me. It’s stupid thinking, isn’t it?”
I search my memory. A face to call home—the phrase reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what. It’s achingly
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