“Are you going to say something” she asks, breaking the awkward silence.
You see, Jane knows full well I’m not a very churchy person. Being the spiritual lady she is, she tries to drag me with her to church every now and then. It doesn’t help that I drink alcohol as well; it’s the perfect excuse for her to preach God’s gospel to me, sullenly muttering about the indecency of drinking alcohol, which by the way occurs freely in nature and is in a way God’s own gift to man. She doesn’t see it that way though.
I shuffle my feet in apparent discomfort and say,
“I just didn’t feel like it”.
A low “Oh” is all she says in reply.
Eager to move the discussion on to safer waters, I change tack and say,
“So, Jane, I don’t think you came on a surprise visit just to make me feel guilty about not going to church today. What’s up? Would you like something to eat or drink?”
She looks at me through narrowed eyes and says smugly,
“Feeling guilty now, are we?”
Her demeanour suddenly changes and she says more softly, her gaze penetrating.
“You should be attending church, you know that. Will you come to church with me next Sunday?”
Her eyes are all pleading, and her voice suddenly seems too smooth, too soft and just like that, my heart begins to thud.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’d do almost anything she asks of me directly. It irks my sensitive ego to be so biddable, but at this very moment, hearing that soft sweet voice, it’s like I’ve been put under an Imperius Curse.
So as not to make my inner weakness evident, I slowly avert my eyes and pretend to think about the request. Turning back to face her, I try to sound patronisingly haughty but obviously, I fail.
“Okay” is all I can bring myself to say.
The smile that slowly spreads across her face is almost worth the dread that’s slowly working its way across my chest, the dread of lengthy, boring sermons, and humdrum programs. And did I mention the tedious worship and praise sessions? I swear, my knees always ache like hell after standing for more than 30 minutes, clapping to the boring, hebetudinous rhythm.
I sit beside her on the bed and watch as she picks up her smartphone and begins checking her social media updates and notifications as she’s apt to do between conversations. As usual, I begin staring at her face.
For you to understand why I have such a soft spot for Jane, you need to know how she looks. Jane has brown eyes. Not black, not contact-lens-grey or hazel, but actually brown. The brown changes shade somewhere in her outer iris, creating a band of otherworldly golden-brown around her pupil, giving her a rather striking look. I could stare at those twin brown pools for hours, not just admiring their beauty, but wondering what secrets they hide. Jane has a broad nose, very unlike my pointy one. Further down, I can safely say that Jane has spectacular lips. The kind of full lips that make lusty eyes wet with even more lust. Her facial features are framed by an oval face. The background is a skin of mid-chocolate-brown tone.
She seems engrossed with her phone. I take in her face, over and over again until I can see her face even when my eyes are closed.
Slowly, as if by an invisible hand, my face begins to draw close to hers, a human magnetic field, north pole drawing toward south pole as my eyes search out her lips, my mouth moving closer, slowly, searching.