Chapter Three
She had been in France three weeks before she saw Sebastine again. When she saw him she was sitting in the back row of a small Catholic church listening to a beautiful sermon on love. The man giving the sermon was a young priest with rakish blonde hair and a walking stick. It had caught her off guard to see Sebastine in the garb of a priest, he looked so different from the day they had met and had coffee.
He had not said anything about himself really. Mostly he had asked her questions about herself and what she would like to do while she was in France. They had sipped coffee and shared a crepe, talking about her plans and hopes. He had seemed so unlike a priest at the time, how she wished he was still unlike a priest. She had hoped, in a childish and romantic way, that he would sweep her off her feet, a sweet little fling to complete her experience in the heart of Love. Now those hopes were horribly dashed as she watched him, his soft voice talking of love.
"Why does his sermon have to be about love?" She wondered quietly. It seemed rather unfair that her ideas had been destroyed and he was still talking about it. She wasn't going to leave, not yet, she decided. She wanted to speak with him, a funny little bubble of sadness floating through her at the thought. They had had such a pleasant time that day at the café and on the church steps. She supposed that they could still have a pleasant time together, just not romantically as she had hoped.
She looked around her, studying the faces in rapt attention to his benediction. She was not the only young woman looking at him with adoring eyes, many hearts seemed to have been broken in his quest for piousness. She sighed. This was not at all what she thought would happen and it was beginning to put a bit of a damper on her spirit.
Taking out a pencil and a sketch pad she began to draw him. She drew him as he had been the day she met him, dark glasses and walking stick. Quickly all but her drawing disappeared, she was in a time and place that belonged only to her. She carefully drew his smile, a little smirk that had been on his face as they were sitting drinking their coffee. She shaded and drew, erased and re-drew. She forgot where she was until someone tapped her on the shoulder.
"Mass is over," said the familiar voice. She glanced up, recognizing the face instantly.
"I'm sorry, Father." She replied, carefully closing her sketch book and putting it in her bag. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses now, giving her a good view of his eyes. They were the color of a lime's insides, faintly green and almost too bright to look at. She took a picture with her mind's eye, a picture to savor for all time.
"Is that you Emmy?" How she loved the sound of his voice saying her name! What a shiver of happiness it gave her, then she was drawn back to his collar and sadness returned again.
"Yes, Father. It is Father Sebastine, is it not?" She tried not to sound so bitter, but a little bitterness came through. She felt as though she had sucked on a lemon, hard.
"Yes, it is Father. Though I prefer just Sebastine when I am with you. Won't you sit back down and talk with me?" He sat at the end of the pew, effectively blocking her from leaving as the other side was against the wall. With a heavy sigh she sat down, rearranging her bag so that it was not in-between them.
They were both silent for a moment, Emmy's eyes drawn to the figure of Christ on the cross. She traced every line of his weary face, caressing every mark of the whip and nails. She was recreating him in paint on the canvas that existed within her mind. She was startled out of her painting when Sebastine cleared his throat to speak.
"Are you angry with me, Emmy?" He spoke so softly, a tinge of hurt and regret coloring the words.
"No." She lied. "I am just surprised. You did not mention your initiation into the priesthood." She took a momentary pause. "How long have you been a priest?"
"A year." He went quiet, fiddling with his walking stick. She knew he was uncomfortable but she didn't want to let him off the hook. She felt like a vindictive bitch, silently hating herself even as she continued to let him squirm. She didn't even know why she was so angry, after all he was practically a complete stranger. He had never called her during those three weeks after they first met. He hadn't actually lied to her, so why were her feelings so hurt? There was another long pause before she spoke.
"I am happy for you." She stood up to leave, her legs brushing up against his as she edged around him. He grabbed her arm as she passed, a silent plead to wait. For a moment she toyed with the idea of walking out and never seeing him again, finding another man to have her fling with. Turning to him she waited for him to stand up. He was a full head taller than her, she realized. She wondered how she hadn't noticed before.
"Emmy, could you forgive me for not being completely truthful with you before? Let me take you for coffee again. We can go for a walk by the Eiffel Tower or the river. Wherever you want to go, let me go too. I promise to not keep any secrets this time." He looked so sincere, she thought.
"The Eiffel Tower sounds lovely," she murmured. He smiled, relief etched into every line.
She had been in France three weeks before she saw Sebastine again. When she saw him she was sitting in the back row of a small Catholic church listening to a beautiful sermon on love. The man giving the sermon was a young priest with rakish blonde hair and a walking stick. It had caught her off guard to see Sebastine in the garb of a priest, he looked so different from the day they had met and had coffee.
He had not said anything about himself really. Mostly he had asked her questions about herself and what she would like to do while she was in France. They had sipped coffee and shared a crepe, talking about her plans and hopes. He had seemed so unlike a priest at the time, how she wished he was still unlike a priest. She had hoped, in a childish and romantic way, that he would sweep her off her feet, a sweet little fling to complete her experience in the heart of Love. Now those hopes were horribly dashed as she watched him, his soft voice talking of love.
"Why does his sermon have to be about love?" She wondered quietly. It seemed rather unfair that her ideas had been destroyed and he was still talking about it. She wasn't going to leave, not yet, she decided. She wanted to speak with him, a funny little bubble of sadness floating through her at the thought. They had had such a pleasant time that day at the café and on the church steps. She supposed that they could still have a pleasant time together, just not romantically as she had hoped.
She looked around her, studying the faces in rapt attention to his benediction. She was not the only young woman looking at him with adoring eyes, many hearts seemed to have been broken in his quest for piousness. She sighed. This was not at all what she thought would happen and it was beginning to put a bit of a damper on her spirit.
Taking out a pencil and a sketch pad she began to draw him. She drew him as he had been the day she met him, dark glasses and walking stick. Quickly all but her drawing disappeared, she was in a time and place that belonged only to her. She carefully drew his smile, a little smirk that had been on his face as they were sitting drinking their coffee. She shaded and drew, erased and re-drew. She forgot where she was until someone tapped her on the shoulder.
"Mass is over," said the familiar voice. She glanced up, recognizing the face instantly.
"I'm sorry, Father." She replied, carefully closing her sketch book and putting it in her bag. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses now, giving her a good view of his eyes. They were the color of a lime's insides, faintly green and almost too bright to look at. She took a picture with her mind's eye, a picture to savor for all time.
"Is that you Emmy?" How she loved the sound of his voice saying her name! What a shiver of happiness it gave her, then she was drawn back to his collar and sadness returned again.
"Yes, Father. It is Father Sebastine, is it not?" She tried not to sound so bitter, but a little bitterness came through. She felt as though she had sucked on a lemon, hard.
"Yes, it is Father. Though I prefer just Sebastine when I am with you. Won't you sit back down and talk with me?" He sat at the end of the pew, effectively blocking her from leaving as the other side was against the wall. With a heavy sigh she sat down, rearranging her bag so that it was not in-between them.
They were both silent for a moment, Emmy's eyes drawn to the figure of Christ on the cross. She traced every line of his weary face, caressing every mark of the whip and nails. She was recreating him in paint on the canvas that existed within her mind. She was startled out of her painting when Sebastine cleared his throat to speak.
"Are you angry with me, Emmy?" He spoke so softly, a tinge of hurt and regret coloring the words.
"No." She lied. "I am just surprised. You did not mention your initiation into the priesthood." She took a momentary pause. "How long have you been a priest?"
"A year." He went quiet, fiddling with his walking stick. She knew he was uncomfortable but she didn't want to let him off the hook. She felt like a vindictive bitch, silently hating herself even as she continued to let him squirm. She didn't even know why she was so angry, after all he was practically a complete stranger. He had never called her during those three weeks after they first met. He hadn't actually lied to her, so why were her feelings so hurt? There was another long pause before she spoke.
"I am happy for you." She stood up to leave, her legs brushing up against his as she edged around him. He grabbed her arm as she passed, a silent plead to wait. For a moment she toyed with the idea of walking out and never seeing him again, finding another man to have her fling with. Turning to him she waited for him to stand up. He was a full head taller than her, she realized. She wondered how she hadn't noticed before.
"Emmy, could you forgive me for not being completely truthful with you before? Let me take you for coffee again. We can go for a walk by the Eiffel Tower or the river. Wherever you want to go, let me go too. I promise to not keep any secrets this time." He looked so sincere, she thought.
"The Eiffel Tower sounds lovely," she murmured. He smiled, relief etched into every line.
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