He moves through the nave with the easy grace of someone who wants nothing. Each step sliding into place and coming down quietly on the flagstone floor. His eyes explore the room, settling on details of stonework and bright stained glass windows, tugging his head and the rest of his body along behind, and every so often, when his face is pulled my way, I catch sight of the slightest smile caught upon his lips, as if something in the stonework pleases him, or perhaps the sweet taste of a kiss.
From my seat by the brochure stand at the back of the nave, I watch, and wonder what would bring such a man into St Michael's Cathedral at 2pm on a Tuesday.
You get all sorts in the cathedral: there are priests, all about their business, and zealots, immaculate, channeling the
power
of the lord (or more likely, hungry for the power of the church). There are lost souls yearning for the cool balm of certainty, and tourists seeking a photo opportunity, looking to gorge themselves on sights and memories. And Fast Eddy. Always Fast Eddy, asking for a couple dollars and a chance to use the public washroom.
There are patterns, and when the pattern breaks it feels... significant. Curious. Unsettling. An awareness of ones breath, arising from such a trivial thing.
I watch as the intruder moves. Each movement rolling into the next, as he crouches down to read a plaque, then stands, rolling his sleeve up and stepping over to sit sideways on a pew warn smooth by the butts of ten thousand faithful.
His hair is sleek black curls. His shirt white, with the hint of a pattern sewn into it: white flowers on a white background.
This must be how Lucifer appeared, arrogant and smiling before his fall from heaven.
He pulls out a sketch pad and a thick black fountainhead. Slouching into his seat, I watch as he stares up towards the roof, his hand moving: a sharp precise fidget. He blinks a quick back and forth between image and reality, and I can't help but look up at the mess of rafters he is staring at.
Like living in the hull of an upturned boat.
The thrill of it, the thrill of realization, of seeing the world with new eyes.
I gaze back down, watch him, not wanting to interrupt. A second or so later I catch myself fidgeting, self conscious. I force myself to stand up, launching off on my obligatory patrol of the Cathedral for the hour.
Breath in, breath out.
I make plans to steal a quick glance at his sketch on my return trip.
By the time I get back he's gone.
* * * * * * * *
That night I allow myself to soak in the bath, sipping champaign and listening to two hours of eclectic chillhop from three dozen nameless little bands, each tune fading into the next. The soap smells of eucalyptus, the shampoo of aloe vera.
I close my eyes and allow my hands to wander, wondering what it might be like to share the tub with someone.
Sexy, tender, but totally impractical.
You'd need a bigger tub for that.
And far fewer concerns about flooding the hallway.
I allow myself to submerge, feeling my breathing instinctively still, and I dream what it might be like to melt way, or become a whale, swimming in the open ocean, a million miles of sea in every direction, my hair like seaweed around me.
A bath tub with no walls.
I wonder what his voice might have sounded like. What we might have talked about if I had talked to him.
I touch myself and wonder about his name.
* * * * * * * *
Wednesday passes like an eternity. Flicking through the bibles on the shelf, I can readily imagine where people got the idea of purgatory, and it irritates me.
This is the best the philosophers of old have to look forward to? The unbaptized children? The decent folk of other faiths?
I am a little hazy on the details on that. My understanding is that expectations change from church to church, and the policy at St Michael's probably changes depending on the priest.
Well, at least the old bastards get to sit around arguing together.
And that is the thought that fills me with warmth and leaves me smiling for the rest of the day.
* * * * * * * *
Thursday he returns, ambushing me as I return from a patrol. He's standing in front a tapestry examining not the image, but the thread work, tilting his head as if from that angle he might understand it better.
As I approach, he turns and smiles at me, pale green eyes locking on to my own for one... two seconds, before slipping past, returning to that thousand mile stare, a look of abstraction, the turning cogs practically visible as he wanders past.
I feel invisible, bereft of words, irrelevant.
Yet somehow I still feel warm.
I feel the cool dry air of the church against my legs, remember that I am meant to be moving. I return to my seat.
I want him.
No... more than that. Something else. How to explain it?
I want to be him.
Or...
I lean back, relax, all the tension draining out of me. Allow my eyes to wander the great curved beams of the roof, the detailed stonework, experiencing the texture of things, the angles of light.
I want to see the world through his eyes.
Have you ever felt like that? Seen someone and just
known,
that through
their
eyes, the world is a vast and glorious place?
The thought comes with a smile. A smug, rueful smile that wriggles and twists between my lips, uncomfortable, warm, exquisite.
I have seen this smile before.
I know it well.
I can have those eyes. I can have whatever I want from him.
I just have to have courage.
I just have to learn.
I watch him. Admire him. Let my eyes fasten upon him, upon his movement, and drink him in unabashed.
Why should I feel shame?
We spend so long being taught to be ashamed.
"Don't stare- its impolite."
But why should we feel ashamed? What for?
I want him.
These aren't my thoughts I'm thinking.
They don't feel like my thoughts. I don't know where they come from.
But I like them.
My eyes drizzle over him, and I am aware of the nerves between my thighs- the skin ticklish, and something in my belly cold, feeling hollow, impatient for the heat of another human being.
After an hour I can sense his work winding to an end, pace over to stand nearby, leaning against one of the great stone columns, watching him, aware of the breeze against my legs, aware of my breathing.
He finishes. Rolls his shoulders and caps his pen.
"Hey pretty boy, mind showing a girl your talent?"
He turns, looks me in the eye, continues packing up. Relaxed. Unsurprised.
"Which talent did you have in mind?"
"Just the picture, ain't looking for anything special."
He fishes in the bag for the images, pulling it out carefully and presenting it to me with a flourish. I take hold of it, turning it face up and studying carefully.
The paper is heavy. The line work is crisp, sharp even, shadows stained into the paper and bleeding in places, all done deliberately, all done in a faithful rendition of the western arch of St Michael's. He's captured the stained glass window, the dozens of sharp edge hues distilled down to a fractured portrait of subtle shades, except it isn't Jesus and his disciples in the image, but instead a figure, some gallant Joan of arc atop an armored white charger, and when I see her face, when I meet the eyes of this prophetic vision, I recognize her at once:
Me.
