The gliding sound of a translucent page being turned. Her straight back, even after two hours sitting on hard wood. Her peachskin earlobes, free of adornment. The simple chestnut braid trailing down her blue dress.
He was not exactly afraid to say hello. Rather, every time he gathered his courage to approach her -- which was frequent -- he would reconsider her placid form and find himself frozen, loath to disturb her calm.
Heather. Her name was Heather. He'd heard it for the first time today.
He sighed quietly and stretched back to face the rafters high above, then trailed his gaze down to a statue of Mary by the wall, across the pews with Bibles tucked into their backs, and to the pulpit where fresh bouquets of white lilies, yellow roses, and purple snapdragons were arrayed for Easter. He fought the urge to look at her again.
How can she stand to read it for so long?
His own Bible he carried for show. He had first entered the church in November, to escape a deluge. He'd stalled by mopping himself with paper towels in the restroom, then dallied in a hall reading pamphlets while somebody vacuumed out of sight nearby. When the white noise stopped, a deep voice from the nave broke his calm. "You sure you don't mind helping me so late?"
"Oh, no, not at all. I just love for things to be neat and tidy. Do you think God feels that way, too?"
The deep voice emitted an amused sound of agreement, but he barely heard it. His grip slackened on the meaningless pamphlet, and he stood mesmerized by the melodious, sweet, slightly breathy voice of the woman who had replied. A faint recovery had only served to fill him with blazing desire to glimpse the owner of that voice. He leaned around the corner for a flash of her back. He dared not investigate further.
She had not seen him. He slipped out quietly as he'd come.
He had returned every week in the five months since that day. In the first few weeks, he'd visited more frequently to learn her habits. She came on Thursday afternoons, and either read or assisted with church duties, depending upon the need. She seemed to dislike crowds, a trait they shared.
Religion was a puzzle to him. He intuitively felt that she would disapprove of him reading anything else in church, and so he carried his own Bible now, but even after near 40 hours reading it in this "holy" place, he did not feel moved. It was she who moved him. Heather. Her name is Heather. A warm liquid feeling crept up his chest. Of course it is.
The soft sound of her Bible shutting jolted him. She stood, slightly stretched her back and arms. He buried his face in the text. She was coming. She was walking down the aisle, hallelujah, her thin, pale arms swaying slightly in time with her hips, or perhaps clutching the book loosely to her chest; her eyes staring straight ahead, or absently scanning the pews; and that dear little freckle on her upper left cheek, marking one of a thousand places to which he longed to press his lips over and o--
She stopped beside him. He looked to her in awe. What, what??
Her hazel eyes gazed into his too deeply as she placed her free hand on his cheek, then bent to kiss his forehead. He could not suppress a shiver. He realized that she was trembling, too. He could faintly hear her heart beneath the pale chest so close that he could almost taste its warmth.
Then, not moving away, she whispered in that silvery voice, "I forgive you."
The sound of the front door broke his transfixion. He never saw her again.