Further

Around noon I met her at an Italian restaurant to have lunch. ‘L'abisso’ I believe it was called. I sat inside for about ten minutes, before she came walking in. Edith. Goddamn I was in love with her. We gave each other a nice little puck on the lips, like we were some high school kids, to young to really know.

“Ahh, you’re wearing your cute little suspenders!,” she said to me, smiling.

I didn’t like her calling ‘em cute. They made me look smart... There was that high school kid again.

I lit up a cigarette. I waited for her to kick-start the conversation. I had been tired for a long time, too tired to start conversations anyway. Waitresses kept flying around us like we were in a pigeon coop.

“So my sister is coming to town next week!”

I looked at her. She had eyes like Vera Farmiga.

“That’s nice... My brother is dead,” I said to her.

“That’s dark, John, real dark. But I wike it cuz it’s you!”

She pinched my cheeks. I need stuff like that.

“Look, Edith, I know you’ve been wanting to know about the book. And I just can’t... I’m not Joseph Smith hon. The book is a mystery to me too. I know that what it says is true. I just don’t know if it will bring any good...” I stared at her from under my eyebrows. I looked away. My cigarette gave me a nice, socially acceptable escape from her eyes.

“John, you’re not John the Apostle. This time around you’re John the Prophet, and prophets don’t keep their prophecies to themselves.”

“If I’m John the Prophet, then who are you?”

“I’m in love with you John.”

I felt a lump in my throat. Those words.

“And I’m not exactly Christian, but I think someone up there is in love with you too,” she said to me, looking frightened almost.

We ordered some food. She ordered something which sounded better than what I ordered. The waitress seemed impressed by my glare. My self-confidence has never left me, but it has been dormant enough to be pronounced dead. But ain't no grave can hold my body down. Heck, doom, despair and agony, bring it on!

She chewed her food and looked at me from time to time. I always had had a thing for Vera Farmiga.

“How did he die?,” she asked.

“How did who die?”

“Your brother.”

I couldn’t tell her it had been suicide. As accepting as people were of me, I was always afraid to scare them away. Maybe somehow my brother’s suicide would rub off on her view of me.

“Motorcycle accident. Got his head crushed under an eighteen-wheeler.”

‘Suicide’ would have been a better answer.

She looked at me, then she continued chewing.

‘L’abisso’ had been filling up. The temperature had been rising. Sweat was becoming visible everywhere.

“Can you people turn on a fan goddammit?,” I shouted through the restaurant.

All the fat Italians looked at me.

“Shush John!,” she hissed at me.

I shushed. They never did turn on a fan.

We finished our meal and managed to have some small talk.

“John, we have to do something. We have to spread it. We have to,” she then said.

“God, Edith, won’t you stop, I told you...”

“John!”

“Well okay Edith, you get the robes, I will get the holy water,” I hissed. I had been waiting to hiss.

“John...”

We shared a moment of silence.

“You’re right Edith,” I finally told her.