Psalm 143:8
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader!
Summary: You met Bob during your Catholic Confirmation
Warnings: A lot of catholic religious talk. This is me rambling about God and Bob. Open ending (sort of). This is narrated in first person, so if you don't like it, bear with me.
Author’s Note: English is not my first language. Please enjoy and let me know what you think. This is based on personal experiences, sort of. This one is also in AO3.
Word count: 7523
Psalm 143:8 “In the morning, let me hear of your gracious love, for in you I trust. Cause me to know the way I should take, because I have set my hope on you…”
I moseyed back and forth in the church’s atrium. The courtyard seemed bigger with the kids screaming and their mothers’ shrill voices. It was a nice Saturday. The sun radiates from the entrance. The summer air plays with my hair as I hide my hands in my front pocket. Salty air. Backpack on my shoulder. Such a nerd.
I couldn’t believe that after years and years of not setting foot inside a temple of Catholicism, I was back at it again. To be honest, not my best time. Seeking Jesus when your life was in shambles and almost broken seemed kind of hypocritical. Seeking him only for his guidance when your whole life you had ignored him… well.
Shit happens.
Mostly, my mouth happens. It never seems to shut up. Or close. Apparently, it had its own self because every time I opened it, something worse and horrible came out. Digging my own tomb. Losing my friends. Every time I tried to say something, a wile was slipping from my lips as if I had rehearsed it beforehand. I believe it was an insurmountable situation for me in my mid-20s.
But that didn’t matter because I was there for the classes. And you may be wondering, what classes? Well, the classes for the Confirmation. One of the seven sacraments of the church.
And yet again, you may be wondering, why are you doing this? Well, the answer is that after the events of my life, seeking Jesus was the only non-negotiable thing I could think of. That, and the fact that my landlord, Mrs. Morales, had convinced me to go to church. Some may say it is a waste of time. Which it probably is. But what the hell. The Catholics believe that, as the body, the mind, and the soul need to grow to mature in the life of grace. And it was a lucky day for me, as I already had the Baptism and the First Communion.
But what’s going to happen? Apparently, the Holy Spirit comes to me, accompanied by God and Jesus, to confirm that my faith is strong. Strong enough to become a soldier of Christ. It means accepting faith and destiny. A leverage for a person, if you may want to put it into words. Dote God, because he is perfect. Doting him because he is a loving father. Not the one in the Old Testament. But the New one. The loving, caring, patient, and polite father. Holy.
So, as the kids keep screaming and their mothers try to grab them to stay quiet in the house of God, I walk over to the side of the church.
A habit I had acquired on Saturdays was to get there earlier. More than ever. To sit there at a lonely bench in the church’s atrium and read a book. Trying to find something to do, to try not to think. Apparently, I had also acquired the abhorrence of talking with people. Skittish hands, hiding my face behind the newest book I could find in the library. Mauling my own mind every day. I think I wasn’t privy to many things.
It was weird; on Saturdays, I didn’t feel like dying at all entering that place, crossing myself from my forehead to my chest to my shoulders. Kneeling. I always gushed with God every Saturday. To be rapt in the fact that finally he could hear me with no judgment. Or maybe just confess some of my sins with no words telling me, “You are forgiven.”
It's bizarre looking at me pleading for forgiveness and participating in church activities. Mostly, it was unusual to see me at church. Especially to see me walking enthusiastically to the classes on the left side of the building.
I'm not good at explaining, but I'll give it a try. The church was large. White with several new lights. If you looked at it from the front, you knew it was huge. If you looked at it from the left, you knew it was the size of an entire block. On the right side, there were a couple of rooms for the priest and his acolytes. However, it was on the left side where the classes took place. If you entered on the left side, you would find two poorly painted black doors. You ignored the first one and entered the second one. A small hallway led to an open area. There was a small tree in the middle of the building.
And if you circled the mango tree, you would find yourself in a hallway lined with classrooms. Mine was the first open classroom. Two windows face the nearby street. Empty as you enter. Green plastic chairs lined up in the right corner.
And they would sort us into groups. I was placed in the ‘adult’ category. And don't get me wrong, being an adult was fine, most of the time. Well… being 25 made me feel like a baby adult. But being an adult also meant being with people my own age. Something I wasn't used to anymore. A thing I wasn’t sure if I liked or if it scared me. But I guess it was a shrill in the back of my mind. Almost like my foot on the throttle telling me to move away. To stop holding resentment and just walk over to a person and say ‘hi.’
But there was also something else. Blue eyes waiting. Hazel, curly hair. A guy who looked like he was about to plummet if you didn’t catch him. Every time I looked at him, I felt a sizzling pang in my hands to caress his knuckles, telling him that it was ok to have doubts. That nothing was moot in this place. Maybe I just wanted to hold his hand. Feel his hot hand against mine, countenancing something that may not be for me.
Him.
Impish grin when he talked. An almost inaudible snickering when someone said something dumb about the Bible. Every time his hoarse voice spoke to dismantle something someone had said, I got a thrill of excitement. It was the smugness. The way his hollow eyes roamed across the room when nobody wanted to answer a simple question like, “What is the Holy Trinity?”
But I shook my head and entered the place. Biting my lip, saying thank you to the obvious God above me for the mango tree and the exquisite mango that was on the floor. I knelt to grab it and then save it in my backpack for later.
When I entered the room, I noticed that he was already there. Sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall, looking toward the door. He was reading a book. Yellow cover. Blue corduroy trousers, regular fit, rolled edge, and a white sweater. Some black vans. He noticed me and then rolled his sleeves down. I raised an eyebrow.
It was 3:17 p.m. according to the watch on my wrist. Classes didn’t start until 4:00 p.m. I gulped. Slowly and in silence, I made my way to the heaped plastic chairs and grabbed one. Place it near the window and take off my backpack, placing it on the chair to claim it as mine. Emboldened, I did something I had never done before: I helped around. I walked again towards the chairs, taking one at a time. I walked around the small room, taking down one chair at a time and placing them in rows. Not only that, but I tried to make them line up straight. When I finished, I smiled with satisfaction. Then I quietly tiptoed back to my place.
I sat on the chair, and as I was about to open my backpack to pull out my book, he spoke.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know? Everyone could grab their chairs when they came in.” Absentmindedly, he said, still looking at his book.
I was in shock for a moment. My hand was still on the zipper of my backpack. I opened my eyes wider and frowned as I looked at him. I put my backpack down on the floor and crossed my arms.
“Doing good for others isn’t wrong,” a plucky pang came into my chest as I finally found the words.
He then looked at me. Blue deep eyes. “Do you think the pews in the church are there for a reason? Some people can put them. Same as here.”
“No, actually, we have to place the chairs here because—believe it or not—we are here to become better people.” I sheepishly answer.
He chortled. I felt like my head was in a reverie. I tried to sit straight and continue looking at him, who was still sitting on the floor. And I continued. “And you’re on the floor.”
“Good observation… Becoming good people, you say?”
“Well, kind of. Why are you here so early?”
“Infatuation. You?” He shoved his book into the backpack hidden behind his back and looked at me with amusement. As if what I had said was the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life. He hugged his backpack and looked at me with an unsettling look.
I had to look away. And cleared my throat. “Couldn’t stand being in my house.”
"Elusive, I see. Ok. Then why are you here?”
He said my name.
My. Name.
Oh.
He knew my name.
I mean. It was obvious. Small group. It was completely evident that he knew my name. By Pentecost, we had already worked together on a project to make an altar, I think. I don't recall very well. He arrived late with a couple of pieces of red and yellow fabric, explaining that those were his contributions. He didn't speak much that day either. Neither did I. I didn't have much to offer to the prayers or the altar.
“Expiation of sins.”
He nodded. Smugly, he stood up. Still clinging to his backpack to his chest. He lolled on the chair next to me. He left his backpack on the floor and crossed his arms. With faltering hands, I turned to look at him. He inspected me up and down. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious of my own baggy jeans and oversized sweater.
“Were you a defector of religion?” he asks, grinning at me.
I could die.
He looked more handsome up close. He had a couple of freckles around his nose. An upturned nose. His hair had a couple of unruly curls. He smelled of cigarettes and an old cologne. He had calloused but masculine hands. His arms, oh his arms. Even with his sleeves down, I could imagine the veins showing. As if he had always done manual labor.
Blue eyes as intense as the sea. Like the sky when the summer is about to start, and there is not a single cloud in the sky. Blue. Deep. Curious eyes. They had a sparkle, but at the same time, they looked empty. Deep-set beneath heavy black brows. Heart-stopping eyes. I wanted to ask him where he got those peepers.
Masculine jaw. Nice Adam's apple. His lips are small yet so tempting. Long hair. The kind of hair that makes you want to play with it, massaging his scalp.
“I was, yeah,” I muttered, trying to breathe in. Looking away so he didn’t feel I was looking at him too much. “You too?”
He said with an appealing voice. “Yes. I was an atheist.” I nodded.
I wasn’t very good at talking anymore. I felt shy even. I felt recalcitrant next to him. Which was weird because I used to be the life of the party. The one who always talked and rambled until my throat hurt. Until I had enthusiastically made new friends. Now I walked gingerly at every corner, trying not to fail. Not to fall. It still gnaws at me, all the things I said in the past. I willed for my heart to calm down.
“Why were you a defector?” he asked.
“God wasn’t answering.” I lipped the answer, looking down. Fidgeting with the paws of my sweater that I had created. “Why were you?”
“I was on drugs. Hard ones.” He said it so winsomely. It was the easiest way to confess. He has a wisp of hair on his forehead. I opened my eyes. And he beamed at me. His arms are now on his sides. “Yeah, I know. I don’t look like a drug addict.”
“I—”
He interrupted me. Voice detached. “It’s ok. I don’t tell that to everybody. Guess you’re the first one in this place. You seem interesting.”
I was surprised by his frankness. I didn't think he was the type of person to say things so bluntly. I think maybe it was a defense mechanism. Or maybe I was the one who didn't know how to deal with people anymore—especially men.
Men are strange. Strange creatures that I don't think I’ll ever understand or comprehend. Men, in my opinion, were creatures who used their power in a world “dominated” by themselves. Because they created that system. Men of any age always sought to take advantage of women. Of their mothers, their sisters, their grandmothers, their girlfriends, their wives, their lovers, their friends, their cousins, their aunts... Any female specimen that moved near them could end up burned, buried, torn apart, or killed by them. And yet they were loved and revered creatures.
Like God.
God was a man.
And God had something strange about him.
In the Bible, God is portrayed speaking to women in dreams and visions, often at times of vulnerability or when they are performing everyday tasks. This is interpreted as a way for God to be present in women's daily lives, showing that a physical journey is not necessary to experience his presence.
In contrast, climbing mountains in the Bible, such as Mount Sinai or the Mount of Olives, often symbolizes a spiritual journey, an effort to seek God, a place of divine revelation, and an encounter with the sacred. Men, through self-improvement, sacrifice, and devotion, were called to these kinds of experiences.
Women, in their daily tasks, were able to find God in everyday moments, while men, through their search in elevated places, found a different connection with the sacred.
One day, a woman complained to her confessor that she had no free time to go up into the mountains and commune with God. The answer she received consoled and pacified her: “Men have to suffer by climbing mountains to find God, but God comes to women wherever they are.”
Was he coming to talk to me like God used to do with Mary Magdalene?
Finally, I found my voice. My voice was soft and measured, as if trying to overcome a stutter. “Interesting? How come?”
“You always have a witty remark about religion or the Bible.” He shrugged. “Last week, for example, when they talked about the forbidden fruit. You gave a history answer. That seems interesting to me.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. And shake my head. Hiding my hands under my thighs, leaning a bit, whispering as if someone could hear us. “Well, was the 'forbidden fruit' in the Garden of Eden really an apple? I don’t know. There is always a literary, artistic, scientific, and biblical answer.”
“I don’t know. What do you think? I want to know.” Bob spoke in a calm, unhurried voice.
My name on his lips sounded like heaven.
Weird. I tried not to blush. Or overthink it. This was odd. He was talking to me like a human being. As if he really wanted to know what was going on in my head. So I thought about my answer.
Religion, as I have come to know it, will always have a more profound answer. More theatrical. More poetic. In the end, the Bible was just a book. A story that was perhaps invented to see the difference between good and evil. Maybe to indoctrinate a tribe. Potentially to brainwash people. Or simply the visionary mind of a fortune-teller. No one knows or will ever know.
“I don’t know if you have read the Bible. Like, not as a religion but as a book. As in literature.” He shook his head, saying no. I nodded, leaning in the chair. Looking straight up at the whiteboard. “In translation, the Hebrew word used in that paragraph was ‘peri,’ which is a generic word for fruit. If we see it linguistically, it is not an apple. It could even have been a fig.”
He listened and then crossed his arms. Stretching his legs. “Ok. That makes sense.”
“As well, they called that tree the ‘Tree of Knowledge,’ right?” He nodded. Looking straight at me. I turned to look at him. Moving my hands, trying to get to the point. “The word ‘sin’ in Hebrew was similar to ‘chitah,’ so basically it was a citron. Maybe it was a citron tree.
However, the story of its translation dates back to when the Bible was translated into Latin. Saint Jerome translated the initial ‘peri’ as ‘malum,’ and then it was translated into French as ‘apple.’ Which also stood for any other fruit with seeds in the middle, because, as you know, Latin roots are just roots. Not words.”
It was the first actual conversation I had had in a while. And when something seemed of my knowledge or interest, I could talk about it for hours and hours on end.
“Meanwhile, paintings and other representations of the Garden of Eden solidified the idea of an apple,” I continued. He nodded again to let me know he was following me. It was almost 4 p.m. “But if we talk about it biblically, it’s a sin. But which one? I honestly believe it is lust, even if Cinthya doesn’t believe it.”
Cinthya was our “teacher,” a psychologist working overtime at the church.
He chortled. His laugh resounded in the room. He shook his head. “Cinthya would say it is pride. If you ask me… for me, lust makes no sense.”
“Why?”
“If God created the woman and man to be together. Then having sex is not a sin.” I raised an eyebrow. “Walk with me. Yes, women are often blamed for being tempted, but Adam chose to eat the fruit. Besides, how would the other humans be here if it wasn’t out of lust?”
“Ok, you have a point. I see that.” I muttered.
“But I shouldn’t speak on women's matters. I am not one.” I chuckled at his comment. Another person entered. We both shut up.
He grabs his chair and places it closer to me. His thigh is now closer to mine. I had to remember how to breathe for a couple of minutes. He leaned, looking at the whiteboard and whispering. “But I like how you think outside the box.”
"Likewise.” The sound of my voice is borderline shocking. It was a bit too loud, even if I whispered through the heavy silence that covers the room.
And that’s where our first conversation ends.
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His head tilts to the side. We are outside for a change, in a circle of arranged green plastic chairs. He is next to me. I could feel the heat of his thigh next to mine. Again, that feeling of longing. The teacher came in. His name is Pedro. I know, Pedro. Like Saint Peter. You can roll your eyes—it's too ironic, isn’t it? However, the truth is that I had lost the ability even to care or recognize signs that God may send.
Pedro was this willful guy obsessed with trying to show us that God was the cure to us all. Sometimes it felt like he was scrounging us into believing. With the stories of his days when he used to do drugs. Bob always chuckled at those. Shaking his head in disbelief. As if he was reckoning something from his past.
Made me wonder what he had done in the past for him to chuckle so easily at someone also bantering about drugs so freely. The way he always used sweaters. Maybe he was hiding some marks—perhaps he was even embarrassed by them. Because he has never worn short sleeves in all these months. Never. I started to believe that possibly he just prefers it because he is ashamed of the scars on his arms from the needles. I also noticed that anytime a sleeve slightly raises, he always hides it back. Quickly, fast. As if someone was going to judge him somehow.
“You changed your hairline,” he muttered towards me, while Pedro kept talking and talking about the Ten Commandments.
I blushed a bit. Indeed, I did. Just a tiny change. From right to left. Something I did for a change, nothing else. I wasn’t even expecting him to notice.
“Yes,” I whispered back.
“Looks nice.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
The conversation stops when Pedro looks our way, raising an eyebrow.
“Do you have anything to add to the conversation, Bob?” Pedro asks. The whole group looked down on us. I almost giggled, crossing my arms.
“Yes, actually,” his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It makes no sense to tell us about having sex and sexuality in general when most of the people here have already had sex. And besides, the ‘You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife’ commandment is wrongly misjudged towards everyone. We all have eyes. And eyelids. We can see, touch, kiss, and even nibble. Or, Pedro, haven’t you seen a girl naked before?”
Pedro shushes. Pressing his lips in a fine line. He ignores the giggles from the class and the teenagers making jokes about it. Bob smiles, and I chuckle. And then the entire group laughs in unison. Tension melting.
He beams at me. I look up at him, nodding with approval.
Noticing he has this attitude. Petulant even. He always had some snarky comment when something snapped him out, making him angry. But in general, he seemed shy. He had this aura on him. Self-deprecating humor sometimes. But he wasn’t afraid to snap back. To comment on sarcastic things.
I liked that.
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One Saturday, we had decided to arrive a bit early. Earlier than usual. Grab some sandwiches outside the church. He had one long leg stretched out, the other hiked up for his forearm to lean against, and was fiddling with his sandwich. I, cross-legged, was munching on the jam sandwich I had brought.
“I have a huge sweet tooth,” he comments. “I like cookies mostly. I try to bake sometimes. I am not very good at it.” He muttered, munching his sandwich.
“I tried to bake once, a banana bread. Almost burned the kitchen,” I comment back. He scoffs.
“Really? You seem like a baker,” Bob said teasingly.
We laugh.
Talking with him was easy. Talking in general has become very natural with him only.
As if nothing had changed inside of me.
Or as if he was opening up to me.
“I do know how to make a glob of curd. Not very fancy.” I murmur, taking another bite of my sandwich. He cleans the crumbs from his lips.
“Pinning bag?” He blinks at me, trying to move the shining rays of the sun in his eyes a bit.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Commendable.”
The air plays with our hair. He smiles at the sky and then sighs.
We both stay silent for a while. A comfortable silence. I like those. It’s been a long time since I had those. He looks so comfortable in his sweater. So soft and cozy. Relaxed. A voice in the back of my head whispers a tiny, ‘lean into his shoulder, place your head there,’ but I won’t. This thing doesn’t happen. Not to me. Most folks, friends, and people… leave. Or maybe they just stay long enough to be a footnote in my life. Or they stay long enough to remember why they should never have stayed in the first place.
Afraid of talking, I clean the crumbs from my lap in silence.
One time, someone told me I was high maintenance. Another person said I was like a human grenade that one day will explode and kill everyone near me. Life has been proving them right since then.
People didn’t expect me to be messy or problematic. Or even difficult. Most of the time, it was easy to mask those feelings. Hide those… things. Those ideas. Until I slipped up. Until I opened my mouth, and my foot was even lower than before. Until slipping becomes bigger and bigger. Until I was almost drowning in my own guilt.
In fact, I was a ticking bomb ready to burst and kill everyone next to me. To my liking or not.
"Are you listening?”
I look up at him. Lost in my mind. I shook my head and looked apologetic towards him. “I am sorry. What were you saying?”
“I asked you if you want to get married in this church. I heard some girls talking about it last week. It made me wonder.”
I glanced around. Admiring the space. The people. The pigeons. The architecture. The way the wind moved the trees above us. Or the sound of the passing cars. It made me wonder. Do I want to get married?
“Do you want to get married?” I ask. Raising my eyebrows.
“No. You?” He frowns.
“No, I don’t like this church.” My fingers are resting against my thigh as I answer.
We chuckled a bit. He sits cross-legged, same as me, and beams like a child towards me. “Why don’t you like the church?”
I liked it when he said my name. It was almost esoteric and limitless. As if my name was supposed to be hung on his lips. As if it was always made to be there. It still felt like a sick joke that God was playing on me. But I’d enjoy the joke for as long as I could.
“I don’t think I could pull a full house on the church. Probably just the first three pews. The church would look rather lonely. I wouldn’t want that.” I confess. “Why don’t you like it?”
“There’s a small church down from my house. It is more photographic.”
“You like photos?”
“A lot.” His bottom lip jutted.
“What kind of photos?” I ask. I dared to lean against the wall and stretch my legs.
He ponders for a while and then opens his mouth, a small smile on his lips. “I like it when people photograph people. I like that. Do you like photos?”
I nodded. “I like taking pictures. Not of me. Mostly nature, the twilight. Those.”
“I do that too. My camera roll is full of them.”
“I guess it’s easier. I don’t like when someone snaps a picture of me,” I confess.
He raises an eyebrow. “Me neither.”
I snicker, shaking my head. “So, how do you want your pictures taken at your wedding if you don’t like them?”
“My wife will do. I won’t.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ok. So, you will disappear from your own wedding photos?”
“Yes. I’d be blipped,” he said, flashing a wry smile.
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I exhaled through my nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before I could stop it.
“You know, I believe that the church is opposed to homosexuality because Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss,” I said, with my hands busy trying to cut a printed image on a sheet.
Bob snorts, covering his face with his hands and peeking through his fingers. That Saturday, we had to make a sign talking about why lust was wrong. In a bad brown Kraft paper Pedro handed out.
Outside, the city moved on. Pedestrians marched by with umbrellas, dodging puddles like it was all muscle memory. Bob, thankfully, didn’t push. He went back to write on the brown paper the word ‘sin’ in big letters and smiled, pleased at his art. He was really good at crafts. Actually, he was pretty good at artsy things. He made it all look easy.
"Ok, but just walk with me,” I press the topic while giggling. “For a student who had great respect for his teacher, a kiss fell well within the healthy expression of honor. So…”
“So…?” He raised an eyebrow. “Many cultures use kissing on the cheek as a greeting, even like… a greeting? Look at the French people.”
I shrug. “So I think that what stands out from this is not just that it's intimidating and really hot. Like… it was a bit hypocritical, but also like manipulating. Like, imagine your friend—the one you believed when nobody else did—and he kisses you in front of all your other friends!”
“I think you are reading way too much into it.” He shakes his head.
“I think you are not thinking about it enough,” I said back, hiding a teasing smile.
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“I read something.”
One evening, two Saturdays before finishing the course, our backs were on the floor. Too early to be in the church, too early for classes. Too early to end this friendship. Too soon to say goodbye. Not wanting to.
His blue eyes warily watched the ceiling, hoping it could creak open so they could see the sky.
He had shown me that I was capable of making friends and of talking again. I was gaining my colors back. I was so close. Closer than ever. Closer than whatever happened in April with my ex-best friend, and my mouth with only taunted intentions.
I guess at some point, we both realized that we needed each other. To prove that we were still capable of doing something worth with our time and gentleness that seemed to disappear into the darkness.
“What?” He asked, munching a chocolate cookie.
“It was in a blog. It said: ‘Do you guys think Jesus, the son of a carpenter, smelled the wood of the cross and temporarily thought of home?’.”
We both stayed in silence for a while.
It was heavy. Hitting home somehow. Because yes… Imagine Jesus not as him, immortal and almighty. The son of God.
But as him.
The son of Mary and a carpenter. Ten little toes and fingers giggling at his parents. Laughing when Mary tickled him or babbling when Joseph carried him on his back. The little baby that slept next to them in bed and felt consoled by them. A little toddler playing with wooden donkeys because Joseph made them for him.
The son who probably had tantrums and liked spring. The little kid who hurt his knee and cried for his father. That little kid probably had a nightmare and called for his mom. A little kid who probably liked flowers and the donkeys and had a favorite word. Maybe even a favorite meal. A kid who grew up with hopes of a free country and free land. The son of a teenage girl who had to leave her parents.
Jesus, who did not turn away from women or lepers. Who saw the good in people. The Jesus who was friendly and kind. Funny. He probably liked dancing.
The teenager that probably—at some point—did not like when his mother kissed his cheeks in front of his friends but liked being babied. Who cried when Joseph died. The teenager that had to help his mom run errands and the business of doing everything around the house.
The Jesus who felt angry when he saw his temple being turned into a capitalist place.
That's Jesus.
“That’s pretty heavy for a September evening,” Bob vacillated.
Silence again.
Jesus wept, they say. Maybe he was nostalgic. I think everyone at the end, is always afraid of death.
Everyone. Even him.
“Uh… I think that the wood would not have been cut recently enough to smell. But maybe when they were hammering, the sawdust would have had a smell.” Bob replied after a couple of minutes of silence.
I sigh. “I think that maybe the things that remind us he was human just as he was divine make me emotional.” I shrug, grabbing another cookie. “Do you think that Joseph realized that his hands, his livelihood, were going to kill his son?”
Bob nodded. “Well, then I guess saying, ‘Do you think Mary cared that her son was God when she looked up at the cross?’ has the same effect… though if we think about it, it was like a sacrificial lamb ripped from God to us. I read one time someone said that Mary wept knowing she did not have a son but a sacrifice and that her womb was the salvation and a grave all at once.”
I closed my eyes.
Sigh.
“I think… that maybe in his divine self, he knew there was no hope for humanity, but in his humanity, he hoped we would?” I hesitated, grabbing another cookie.
His fingers are closer to mine. Just a small brush of his fingertips with my knuckles when we both reached for the cookies. I tried not to blush, or at least not to give it away.
He had this small, sheepish little smile. It was one of my favorites. His eyes always had this softness with a gleam. A gleam I noticed he somehow only had for me. Every time he looked at me. As if somehow we both noticed that there were stars hung from our eyes.
I would normally offer a smile. I would normally run away.
But not today.
Not when this was almost gone with the wind.
Not when this felt like water running through my hands.
“You know what gets me?” I continued turning to look at him. “He actually got scared and asked God if he could stop it all.”
I turned to look at him.
Blue against dark eyes.
A small dimple on his cheek.
He said to me one time that he was used to being isolated and left behind. He said that I was the first one in a long time to actually walk next to him. To not turn away.
“I wonder if he ever thought of his father, and which one he thought of. Joseph or God?” I continued. Never stop looking at his eyes. Moving my hands passionately. Not realizing that this could also apply a bit to his situation.
“I think I had never thought about it. Like, do you think he recognized which nails they used?” I kept going. “Or how differently do they use the hammer? And do you think that maybe he felt the texture and felt it was unfinished?
That it may have been splintered, and for a second, he thought of home? Of the soft hands of his mother soothing and cooing at him when a splinter was there? Or maybe the patient care Joseph had when explaining something? Maybe he was thinking about what kind of tree it was made from? Maybe it was imported? Maybe it was an olive tree? Do you think he remembered the first time he saw Judas? Or the first time he left home?
He felt betrayed by his friends, because they fell asleep in that place, not caring if they actually came for him… He wept. Like, actually wept asking his father why was he the only one doing this. Imagine him with fear. Imagine him with wishes and hopes. And a little frown when he did not understand anything. He was—he was a man, you know?
And he carried that on his shoulder… and he saw… he saw his mother, you know? Like… in the crowd. He thought of Joseph and the time his father died. And he was grieving for her too, because… yeah. He is leaving her the same way Joseph did.”
He did not say anything else.
I did not have anything more to say.
Robert. Bob… How does this apply to someone who begged on the streets for his suffering to end? Wondering if someone may change for him? Begging his father for love and forgiveness. Begging his mother not to let go of his hand.
Sometimes, when a story has been told and passed down for many generations, we often forget that those characters were people at some point.
Same with Bob. He explained his life to me. His addictions. His past self. The nights on the streets. The cuts on his arms. How to clean a needle and how to make a spoon even hotter. He explained everything like he was a character, a failed one. One that had no recovery.
But when I saw him. I saw salvation.
And temptation.
But mostly, a fallen angel.
Because he was. Maybe he had gone away from the shepherd. But he came back. He got better. He was not even holy or sacred, but he was here, present. Clean.
Sober and clean, and funny. And sarcastic. With blue eyes like the sea. With big hands that were good at making art and drawing. With gentle smiles just for those who were good to him.
He was here, shy and sometimes stuttering. Rosy cheeks when someone gets too close.
Bob was here.
Alive and well.
So maybe he was a fallen angel. Someone who lost their humanity and someone who is only seen for what the story has crafted them to be, not as the people they are now.
He is human. Human like the rest of us. Human like me.
Bob is here. With me.
I hope Jesus—and Bob—remembered his life up to that point… or this point. And I hope that he remembered it with fond memories. I was hoping that in this exact moment, the same way as Jesus, Bob remembered the kindness and love, the small things we shared during these months.
I hope when he looks back at this moment, he remembers our laughter and fun. I hope that, even if he was tormented, he at least could hold on to these memories. After all, one does not open their hearts for someone they don’t love.
His back on the floor, making me laugh out loud like I hadn’t done in months.
Bob is here, making my heartbeat faster. He is the perfect mix of Saturday evenings, October mornings, and June summer air. He is here listening to me. Making me want to put on makeup and dress up a bit more. Bob somehow is here to prove that we can be human even after our mistakes.
He laughs as he means it. Even if it makes his back arch a bit. Even if it makes his nose scrunch a bit.
He talks like he is running out of words. He talks in this shy manner, but also with a sharpness that makes my brain fuzzy.
Bob stares at the ceiling like he wishes he could go there.
Bob moves his hands when he explains something.
Bob fixes his hair when he is nervous.
Bob looks at the altar like he is hoping for an answer or a hug.
He makes me want to be better because he is better; he is recovering. Bob makes me happy in ways I was not even sure someone else could comprehend this. Us. Bob is here with his blue eyes and his hoodies, listening.
And that’s it.
It’s not a grand gesture. It does not hit you like the wind.
It’s a small moment. His eyes were looking directly.
That’s how you know it. Isn’t it? That little word everyone wants
Love.
The ‘L’ word everyone looks for. The giddiness, the butterflies, and the summertime. The smiles and the fingertips are eager to touch each other. The feeling that it’s too big for the hands. The feeling that feels like it’s running out, killing you, but you can’t get enough.
A delirious smile appeared on his face.
He smirked. That small and cute smirk he always had before he made a joke. “Maybe he looked at the cross and said, ‘Oh, this is a terrible work; my father Joseph would never. This is so badly crafted. Look at those nails. Who sanded this?’”
That made me laugh. Loud and not pretty. The kind of laugh that makes you forget that you are with a friend, and you forget how handsome he is. The one with a squeal. The one he said he liked one evening.
“Bob!”
“He was fun! I bet he would have scolded them.” He said teasingly. Making me laugh again. “He said, ‘They should have used oak.’”
I laughed harder than ever. Cleaning tears that ran down my face.
Then I stopped and looked at him. Smiling.
“You are funny,” I mutter.
“Glad you noticed.” He beams.
Bob is here with me now. Hot body next to me. His curls spread on the floor. Crinkling eyes. A gleam. A sparkle.
He seems happy.
He is happy.
I hope he is happy.
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ❀ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
The Saturday of our Confirmation came faster than I thought. It was almost 8 am. I moseyed back and forth on the church’s atrium. The courtyard seemed bigger with the kids screaming and their mothers’ shrill voices. With families proud that their teenagers were doing this confirmation of faith. It was a nice Saturday. The sun radiates from the entrance. October air was playing with my hair as I fixed my clothes. A bit nervous.
Apparently, the Holy Spirit comes to us, accompanied by God and Jesus, to confirm that our faith is strong. Strong enough to become a soldier of Christ.
Strong enough to say goodbye.
I saw him outside in a very big black suit. The kind of tuxedo that does not fit in any place; the kind that looks like it belonged somewhere else. The woman next to him seems kind, a bit old. She moves his hair a bit and smiles at him. Makes him stand next to the walls of the church to take a photo.
He was tall, yet slightly slouched, his hands over the pockets of his pants. His hair was disarrayed. Handsome.
Mrs. Morales, my 'godmother,' looks at him and then at me. But she does not say anything. Just smiles and then fixes my hair too. She smiles at me and makes me stand straight. Taking enough pictures to make her seem like she is my mother.
He waves in my direction, and I wave too.
He approaches me with a sheepish smile and something behind his hands. I try to fix my hair and smile at him.
“You look—” We both said it at the same time. A small chuckled and I gestured for him to speak first.
Bob gave a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look pretty.”
“You look handsome,” I chuckled softly, glancing up at him with a shy, almost bashful fondness.
A bit of silence.
Wind playing around us. His smile is sweet, making me want to melt on the spot.
The way the rays of sunshine hit his face is breathtaking. I need to get a grip. Look around.
“So this is it,” I said, forcing the words to come out of my mouth.
He nods. “It is.” He doubts until he speaks again. “Can I ask you a real personal question that may ruin all these months, and you may and can say no?
I eagerly nodded.
Hands behind my back, my nails digging into my palms.
“W-Would you like to… keep in touch? Like friends. Or not. It’s ok if not…” He spluttered.
I shake my head, smiling.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
He was smiling—another almost feverish smile. “Uh—uh-huh."
“Then I guess…”
“I guess I will text you when this is done?” He has this smile.
Sheepish. Cute.
The hair on his face.
Out of instinct or curiosity. Or loss of mind, my hand reaches and fixes the strand of hair that got lost on his forehead, hiding it behind his ear.
“Want to grab lunch with us?” I ask, turning to point at my godmother, who is talking with the older lady he brought. “We were, uh, going to eat pizza after this.”
“Sure, sounds like a plan.”
The eyes, they never lie, they say.
There is this… sparkle. A little one that makes my heart race.
Blue eyes against darker ones.
Blue eyes full of life when they look at me.
I bit my lip, hiding a smile.
He does too.
The October air surrounds us.
A day full of promises.
I don’t want to say goodbye. He does not either.
It’s a promise.
It’s… this.
Us.
