He dresses nice; dark blue pressed pants with a nice crisp white shirt that has a monogram on the breast pocket that held a Parker pen. A chunky watch (may be expensive, I don’t know watches to save my life). Shined black formal shoes. Slick hair (whatever is left of it) parted carefully from right to left. Gold-rimmed spectacles. Wafting a luxurious fragrance (Azzaro Chrome, I think).
Worship Sunday, after all.
The first time I went for Worship, he tried not to make eye-contact but his curiosity got the better of him. He stared a little bit during Communion but not in a creepy way, okay. He was just wondering who this girl, who looks so out of place, is. He smirked when I stopped saying the Lord’s Prayer when the monitors switched off. Having established superiority, he sang all the hymns extra-heartily.
He also started giving me condescending smiles. I had gained his acceptance as an outsider.
When he found out that Father was allowing this girl to get married in his Church, he decided enough was enough. Blasphemy! Unfortunately, his brand of beliefs wasn’t shared by the Committee and I ended up walking down the aisle, the “pretend-Christian” that I am, right under his nose.
But since then, eye contact was never made, if he could help it.
If he couldn’t, he made sure I could see the sneer.
