This isn’t really my thing

This isn’t really my thing.

I sat in my car in the church parking lot, twisting the tarnished ring on my finger until it pinched the skin. I looked down the line of cars and counted. Ten cars. Mostly mini-vans. A small group. People would notice me.

Sometimes I get uncomfortable at “women’s events.” They can occasionally feel over-wrought. The sincere emotions of other women can make me itchy. And the more tears they shed, the more I shut down. It’s not them. It’s me. Boy is it me.

But I walked inside, into the dark sanctuary lit by fake flickering candles. I scratched my arms. Cushions for kneeling were scattered in the front of the room. I scratched harder.

The night started with music and I slipped to the side and stood by the windows. They faced west, toward the jagged mountains and softening blue sky. The sun was weakening. I could stare at it, only squinting slightly.

I sat on one of the cushions and lightly touched my fingers to the cool window. The sun slipped lower. The mountains grew darker. The sky morphed into the fuzzy pink color of the dryer lint when a red sock is mixed in with my whites.

That’s pretty, I thought.

I sat there for twenty minutes. Long enough to watch the mountains turn inky black. The sky blazed with orange the color of a campfire.

And in the languid blink of an eye, it was over. The sky went from fresh bruise to dark. No color. Just velvety dark.  I leaned my forehead against the window, cooler now. I shifted on my cushion, lightly scratched my arm.

This isn’t really my thing, I thought.

But maybe it should be.


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