Confirmation 1

Confirmation (1/X) I saw Kate D’Angelo again, the first time since our brief meal, in the little shop where we met. She saw me first, the sight of me bringing pause to her breathing. I wish in a good way, but surely not. In the shop, I dare not approach her, speak to her, barely meet her eye. Such things are against my cause, and against what Meric would prefer. The bottom line lies with Meric; what he prefers, I prefer too. But I just don’t prefer this. So I approach Kate right away, on the first meeting since that night in the restaurant. “Miss D’Angelo.” As if this formal treatment lessens my crime. She smiles. Always polite. “Hello.” “I trust you remember me? Zeal, from--” “Yes,” she says. “Of course I remember you.” “Well, I am curious--you really peaked my interest before you left so suddenly--about this St. Hill character. I’ve thought about all you said, so little though it was, and I concluded that he must be just a character. Since you mentioned magical abilities. And to be honest, I felt a little fooled, deceived to be perfectly clear. I strongly believe you owe me further explanation.” And then, she said something quite surprising. “Or what?” I’d been preparing this little speech in my mind, in case I saw Kate again, which I thought I might, and perhaps had even steered for. I might have been lingering at the little shop more than usual. I concede only that. “I just . . . believe that you do. I mean, why would you sit me down under the pretense of a beautiful evening, and think I’m a storybook character? You are a very attractive woman--and I will pay for saying that--so I have a hard time believing you are insane. I am being honest when I say that.” She says, “I have no idea what you are really saying,” and places her store goods aside. She gently steers my own hands, with my own goods, to the same spot, and I drop everything. She says, “Let’s discuss this outside.” “Are you threatening me?” “No. Let’s go.” So I do. It’s night out, and still frigid. I notice Kate remove from her jacket pocket the, to me, trademark gray scarf, meticulously wrapping it around herself. “Listen,” she says, as we walk further and further from the shop. “All of the thinking you said you’ve been doing--it’s wrong. All wrong, and I’m sorry, you’re just wrong. St. Hill is as real as the moon.” I looked forward, and sure enough, there existed the moon; bright, visible, and real. “Understood,” I say. “You have my interest, as ever.” She takes a deep breath, letting it out in a cloud of fog. “The problem with St. Hill is that he could be anyone. My own speculation is that the ‘anyone’ may not know they are St. Hill. There is a serious problem, if you are to be my enlisted help in finding him. That problem being, you could be St. Hill wether you like it or not. We have to shove that question out of the way before I am comfortable around you.” I say, “How did you come to that conclusion?” “I just did.” So there! What a familiar way of life. I am encouraged. “I’m on board, “ I say. “How do we make sure I’m not St. Hill?” Without answering, I notice her fumbling both hands near the jeans she wore. A wave of panic rushed through my body. “Wait . . . I can’t . . . You know, I’m not allowed . . .” “What?” She says, looking over, a piece of crumpled paper in hand. “Nothing at all,” I say. Of course, I thought she was removing the pants. You can imagine what I thought the test would be! “Answer these questions,” she says. “One. Have you ever felt like the most important person in a crowd?” I think. “No.” “Two. If you could be the most important person in a crowd, would you?” “Yes.” “Three. Do you think the ground exists to hold up your feet?” Tough! But: “No.” “Four. Would you like your own fan club?” “No.” “Five. This one open-ended. What would you most like to posses?” I think, and say, “Would it be out of line to say ‘You’?” “I wish you wouldn’t.” “Then . . . something similar.” “Acceptable. Now. Would you like to know if you are St. Hill?” “Yes,” I say. “Obviously.” “You are . . . Not St. Hill, by my reckoning.” I sigh. “Alright. So I am enlisted?” “You are.” She smiles. Finally comfortable! And what a beautiful thing to witness, the comfort of another! “I’ll say it again,” I say, as we walk ever further. “This St. Hill, sure seems to be an a*****e.” “It keeps coming out that way,” she says.