White Sundays

WHITE SUNDAYS

It was cold that year and the snow lingered. That is to say, it stuck, it stayed, it remained and got itself dirty. There was a period of time when the snow could not get dirty because it was covered with a fresh, new layer before the soot and ashes of the town could settle from the air.
        He always walked on Sundays. The only day when he did not need to hurry or be somewhere or get something for someone. It was his time, his day. That is not to imply that he was surrounded by many demanding people every minute of his life. He was not. He lived alone in a flat of 3 rooms that was large enough to prevent a feeling of imprisonment, yet small enough to manage alone. It was cheerfully decorated with very few pictures and knickknacks and never revealed the season, not even Christmas.
        Living alone was his choice after she left him. He was glad she left. It was time she left. He never understood how she could tolerate him or put up with his habits. But loneliness was a poor companion to him and the solitude, though it was welcome, pricked at him, unsettled his body and his mind.
        He was quiet and women hated that. His words were chosen with care and were used sparingly, economically. He lived quietly and walked quietly and slept quietly, hardly ever did a snore escape his throat.
        He walked to attend church on Sundays. It was twelve blocks and uphill to the church and each Sunday, rain, snow, sun or fog, he walked there, sat in the second pew from the front, sang, chanted, prayed, lit candles for his Mother and Father, and then when Liturgy ended, simply walked back to his flat. There was the paper to read, and another walk to take when lunch was accomplished at his parent's home. The streets were friendly enough.
        One bitterly cold Sunday morning in the darkest days of winter he wrapped himself tight against the wind and blowing snow and could not get warm despite all his best attempts. He walked fast, his head bowed against the stinging snow that blasted his face and eyes. He knew the church would not be crowded this morning due to the cold and snow and nd that was confirmed as he entered, crossed himself, and sat in his usual place, attempting to shiver warmth into his body.
        Then he felt the heat. He felt like he was sitting in the sun, warmth penetrating into his left shoulder and from there, across from him. It was radiant heat, he was sure that, but did not know its source until he looked, wondering, and quietly of course, to his left.
        She sat there at the opposite end of his pew, hands folded and her coat bundled against the cold and snow. She was the heat source and he looked at her for as long as seemed polite, then pretended to look beyond her, to the windows in the doors that looked out on the storm outside. Of course, he could have looked to his right and had a view of the outdoors, but he was irresistibly drawn to the left, the source of the heat.
        No one else occupied the pew with them. He had hoped that there would be a need to slide closer together, although he was certain that he would burn up if he did get nearer to her. He saw that she never looked his way, never watched him from the corner of her eye the way he was watching her. The service ended and she took the center aisle out while he took the right hand side, but moved slower and more deliberate as he examined the stained glass windows in which he seemed to find a new and burning interest.

        He followed her at a distance that, if the snow had not been blowing, would have got him noticed simply by the way his eyes adored and were locked on her. Despite the fierce wind and stinging snow that brought tears to his eyes, he could not look away or shield them.
        She walked quickly and strongly ahead, never defensive in the weather, sure of her footing and path. Snow sprayed from her steps easily and was carried off by the wind, that played with the hem of her long coat, in a mist as fine as fog.
        When she slipped and fell or, as it seemed from where he stood, was knocked down by an out of control car sliding down the street, his heart nearly broke. "No!" he cried as he began running to the spot he judged was where she might be, must be.
        She was not there. The snow was untouched along that street, scoured free by the wind in places, drifted in others.
        He looked around and saw only the church with long icicles hanging from the high roof, jagged, like frozen tears and he felt so alone.

        It was later on, near the end of winter when he saw her again in church in the same pew. The heat was unmistakable and it attracted him. It was the same glow he felt months before on that snowy Sunday. It was the same woman who vanished as he followed her in silence.
        After the service, he waited for her outside in the sunshine and was determined to ask her name at least and maybe get to know her better. They both walked, though his direction was the opposite of hers, so they had something in common.
        He picked her out of the people emerging without looking. He still felt the incredible heat radiating from her and it got stronger as she got closer to him. He watched her, pretending to look up at the dripping icicles that dropped their sparkling liquids on the heads of the exiting worshippers, one of whom was the mystery woman. The drops startled her into looking up, to see the source of the wetness and the next drop splashed exactly on her face, right in the eyes.

"Don't cry," he joked as he offered a clean pocket handkerchief. She laughed and dabbed at the drop.

"I almost drowned!" she replied.

That Sunday, he missed lunch with his parents, but did not go hungry.

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