Touch
Title: Touch
Rating: PG
Summary: Someone torched the old church on Eighth Avenue, and everyone declared it an unfortunate waste.
The day I turned twenty-seven, someone torched the old church on Eighth Avenue while Jeff and I were in the middle of breaking up. The firetrucks screaming down the street past the cafe seemed to agree with the fact that there were more important things in life than Jeff and his emotionally unhealthy attachment to his computer.
"What did you say?" I asked, the sirens dying as they turned the corner. From my vantage point near the sidewalk, I could see the flames shooting up in the sky, like they could burn the clouds. Smoke rolled steadily out from the spire, carrying with it some vile scent of incense that I could almost remember smelling the one time I had been inside the building. It was also, I thought, possibly one of the reasons that I had not bothered returning.
"We could get counseling." Jeff's hands were clenched around the coffee mug, a white-knuckle death grip held fast on the ceramic. He probably thought the world would end if he let go of the cup.
I made a noncommittal sound. "A therapist could retire off of us, Jeff," I reminded him, my voice sounding infinitely patient in my ears. "That's why it's over."
"But, Lina--"
I stood, the chair clattering across the uneven concrete, reminding myself to be civil. "Take care, Jeff."
"Lina..."
I knew what I was in for--when I arrived home, there would already be sixteen messages on my answering machine, but that would be hours from now and I didn't think much of it right away. Jeff could be emotionally clingy, when he wanted to be. Too bad the instinct always seemed to strike at the wrong time. My feet led me out of the cafe, and I hung a left at the record store.
The incense was more prominent in the air as I drew nearer to the church, toward the huddled group of onlookers gesturing and talking in voices dulled by the roar of the fire.
"Never stop it at this rate--"
"Let it burn--"
"God's justice, that's what it is."
The last came from an old woman, blue-grey hair reflecting red as she directed her affirmation directly at me. I stopped a foot shy of the group, and the woman leveled her finger at me. "Justice," she said intently, "for letting a church go to waste."
"I...beg your pardon?"
But she had turned away, back to the little knot of women that she had been standing with, and I turned my eyes to the fire, trying to look like I belonged. There was a muffled explosion from within, and the words, "Holy water," came from behind me, the same old woman dead-set on her religious wisdom. A yellow hose stretched out along the ground nearby inflated abruptly as water raced through it and out the nozzle, arcing up over stone archways and shattering windows as it hit the church.
"Beautiful."
A man had come up next to me at some point, and he raised a hand toward the church, fingers splayed. A glint of gold reflected off of his watch. "Beautiful," he repeated, looked to me as if for confirmation, his dark eyes bright with awe as he stared over the shoulder of his grey jacket. "Beautiful."
There was a wild moment in which I wanted to agree with him.
His fingers curled against the air, as if he were attempting to reach out and grab the fire itself. "Beautiful."
I realized that he might be crazy. "Excuse me," I mumbled, and slipped back away from the crowd, heels clacking against pavement, the subway station fifty, thirty, ten feet away. Down the stairs and around the railing, sliding my card through the till as quickly as I could, snatching it back as the machine regurgitated the plastic and let me through the gate. There, the train, ready and waiting, and I edged through the doors just as they made to shut.
It occurred to me later how ridiculous I must have looked at that point, slightly breathless as I kept glancing out the train windows to make sure I hadn't been followed by an insane man. I sat down, smoothing my skirt across my knees and settling my purse in my lap. Somewhere in its depths, my cellular phone made its familiar chime, telling me that I had voice mail. It silenced as the train barreled deeper underground, away from cell towers and signal, and away from a blazing church and a crazy man who found the whole thing beautiful, reaching out as if his fingers could brush the face of a nameless god.
Rating: PG
Summary: Someone torched the old church on Eighth Avenue, and everyone declared it an unfortunate waste.
The day I turned twenty-seven, someone torched the old church on Eighth Avenue while Jeff and I were in the middle of breaking up. The firetrucks screaming down the street past the cafe seemed to agree with the fact that there were more important things in life than Jeff and his emotionally unhealthy attachment to his computer.
"What did you say?" I asked, the sirens dying as they turned the corner. From my vantage point near the sidewalk, I could see the flames shooting up in the sky, like they could burn the clouds. Smoke rolled steadily out from the spire, carrying with it some vile scent of incense that I could almost remember smelling the one time I had been inside the building. It was also, I thought, possibly one of the reasons that I had not bothered returning.
"We could get counseling." Jeff's hands were clenched around the coffee mug, a white-knuckle death grip held fast on the ceramic. He probably thought the world would end if he let go of the cup.
I made a noncommittal sound. "A therapist could retire off of us, Jeff," I reminded him, my voice sounding infinitely patient in my ears. "That's why it's over."
"But, Lina--"
I stood, the chair clattering across the uneven concrete, reminding myself to be civil. "Take care, Jeff."
"Lina..."
I knew what I was in for--when I arrived home, there would already be sixteen messages on my answering machine, but that would be hours from now and I didn't think much of it right away. Jeff could be emotionally clingy, when he wanted to be. Too bad the instinct always seemed to strike at the wrong time. My feet led me out of the cafe, and I hung a left at the record store.
The incense was more prominent in the air as I drew nearer to the church, toward the huddled group of onlookers gesturing and talking in voices dulled by the roar of the fire.
"Never stop it at this rate--"
"Let it burn--"
"God's justice, that's what it is."
The last came from an old woman, blue-grey hair reflecting red as she directed her affirmation directly at me. I stopped a foot shy of the group, and the woman leveled her finger at me. "Justice," she said intently, "for letting a church go to waste."
"I...beg your pardon?"
But she had turned away, back to the little knot of women that she had been standing with, and I turned my eyes to the fire, trying to look like I belonged. There was a muffled explosion from within, and the words, "Holy water," came from behind me, the same old woman dead-set on her religious wisdom. A yellow hose stretched out along the ground nearby inflated abruptly as water raced through it and out the nozzle, arcing up over stone archways and shattering windows as it hit the church.
"Beautiful."
A man had come up next to me at some point, and he raised a hand toward the church, fingers splayed. A glint of gold reflected off of his watch. "Beautiful," he repeated, looked to me as if for confirmation, his dark eyes bright with awe as he stared over the shoulder of his grey jacket. "Beautiful."
There was a wild moment in which I wanted to agree with him.
His fingers curled against the air, as if he were attempting to reach out and grab the fire itself. "Beautiful."
I realized that he might be crazy. "Excuse me," I mumbled, and slipped back away from the crowd, heels clacking against pavement, the subway station fifty, thirty, ten feet away. Down the stairs and around the railing, sliding my card through the till as quickly as I could, snatching it back as the machine regurgitated the plastic and let me through the gate. There, the train, ready and waiting, and I edged through the doors just as they made to shut.
It occurred to me later how ridiculous I must have looked at that point, slightly breathless as I kept glancing out the train windows to make sure I hadn't been followed by an insane man. I sat down, smoothing my skirt across my knees and settling my purse in my lap. Somewhere in its depths, my cellular phone made its familiar chime, telling me that I had voice mail. It silenced as the train barreled deeper underground, away from cell towers and signal, and away from a blazing church and a crazy man who found the whole thing beautiful, reaching out as if his fingers could brush the face of a nameless god.