Fragility

In which the speaker's closely-maintained persona of strength crumbles in the presence of simple affection.

The sun is radiant, but the air is brisk - for the moment, the frigid November rain has ceased. Dazzling sunbeams dance off the puddles and pools collected on the pockmarked stone masonry of the parish steps to playfully blind anyone caught in their path. Beside me, a family of parishioners argues lightheartedly between themselves - the patriarch has supper waiting at home, and his grandchildren clamor for it in earnest. I fill my lungs with the stinging autumn air, make no attempt to stifle the sigh that tumbles forth from me - we’ve just finished cleanup after hosting and feeding four additional parish congregations, and I am exhausted.

This causes our pastor to turn inquisitively in my direction. I didn’t realize he was present with this family, and even through the chill, I feel the heat of embarrassment color my cheeks. I’ve made it my mission to never let him see me show any disappointment or frustration, and I can tell by the way his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline, the way his head c***s just slightly, that I have mistakenly revealed too much. My answering smile is reflexive - but it doesn’t reach my eyes. He steps toward me, but I speak before he has the chance to.

“I don’t think I need to be present for this conversation,” I say, nodding toward the family. This earns me a chuckle, and the genuine warmth radiating from him matches the pumpkin orange of his shirt perfectly. I notice idly that his tie is gone and the top two buttons are undone. I can see the top of his undershirt - a fact about which I do not know how to feel.

I take a slight backward step toward the parish door before my emotions can confound me further, but he is more perceptive than I give him credit for. He pierces me with his ice-blue gaze, a knowing, paternal look behind his glasses. He takes a step toward me with open arms, and I fold. I accept his embrace hungrily and return it with force, clinging to him without restraint. I sink into him, and his firm grip around my back keeps me steady. Without deciding to, I let my eyes slip closed. His beard scrapes gently over my cheek as I lower my head to rest on his shoulder. The remaining scent of his aftershave tickles my nose as I squeeze him tighter, and I can only hope that he doesn’t sense the undertone of desperation in my embrace.

As we extricate ourselves from one another, he holds me at arm’s length. The firm squeeze he gives my shoulders and the silent question in his raised eyebrows confirm my suspicion.

My hope was entirely in vain.