Dem. Nonetheless, I thought they would be perfect together. But what did I know?
“I retract my last statement,” Anh said as she stared at da Vinci with her mouth agape. “You don't have a chance in hell with a specimen like that. Even if he is a living statue in your backyard.”
Michael squinted his eyes. “You like da Vinci?”
“Not in that way.”
“Hell, yes, in that way,” Anh retorted. “Any woman with a pair of … ovaries would like him in that way.”
Michael shook his head and crossed his arms, knowing when to keep his mouth shut.
Anh handed Vi some Cheerios from her oversized black leather purse (she wouldn't dare carry a diaper bag). “So did you call the yogi yet?”
“A yogi,” Michael said, shaking his head again. “Don't go getting her involved in your Eastern mumbo-jumbo.”
Anh ignored him. “Tell the Repub a little yoga might remove that massive stick up his ass.”
“Stop it, you two. You're worse than my boys.” Anh claimed that I was like a pipe with massive clogged drains keeping “flow” from happening. It all sounded drippy to me, but I'd promised myself I would try new things and that included the possibility that my body did need some spiritual plumbing.
One thing I knew for certain: the Cheetos/Oreos/sad movies method I had prescribed for myself had done zilch for my grief and even less for my body image. I had always considered myself an open person until my loss sealed the door shut. With the help of— what? — I could open it again. I would plow through the ideas in the grief binder like Columbus searching for his New World. Where I would find me again, only God, or Buddha, knew.
Then there was da Vinci, whose coming was both timely and oddly welcome. We began our journeys at the same juncture, side by side as we ventured into the unknown; he trying to start a new life in America, me trying to find the meaning of it again. Anh said we were entering our Renaissance period ( Renaissance: a revival of or renewed interest in something ). The original da Vinci had been a key figure in the sixteenth-century Renaissance, and I had no idea if my da Vinci would play a key role in mine.
With one hard kick, da Vinci scored a goal, and raising his arms in the air, searched me out in the bleachers. I cheered for him and felt the deadbolt unlock, the sound echoing through my soul.
Chapter 4
soul \sol\ n 1 : the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being regarded as immortal 2 : a person's moral or emotional nature or sense of identity ( Origin : Old English)
I GAWKED AT DA VINCI'S naked chest a full three minutes before turning the engine off to retrieve him and regretfully see him slide his T-shirt back on his sweaty, dirt-streaked frame. No shock; I wasn't the only spellbound, jaw-slacked female enjoying the view. When I took my eyes off of him for a split second, I saw a woman walking her dog (more like standing still) staring at him, and another just pull over at the side of the road to take a long peek. I thought, Is this what my life has come to ? Getting my thrills watching a well-built guy planting pansies? Am I so desperate that just watching McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy isn't cutting it for me anymore? And wasn't I going to visit my neighbor Gabriella's deacon this afternoon to talk about the very essence of our being: the soul? To prep for it, I should be waxing existential, not staring at eye candy all afternoon.
It wasn't my fault da Vinci got overheated and took off his shirt. It's not like I asked him to. (Would I dare?) I was just an innocent bystander, giving him a ride back home before I hoofed it to the deacon. So if a girl just happens upon a thing of beauty, it would be rude not to appreciate the artistry of a well-sculpted creation. And it somehow calmed my nerves about meeting with a theologian. Because as open-minded as I am about life, culture, differences, I haven't firmly graspedany one belief about Heaven, God or that mystery
“I retract my last statement,” Anh said as she stared at da Vinci with her mouth agape. “You don't have a chance in hell with a specimen like that. Even if he is a living statue in your backyard.”
Michael squinted his eyes. “You like da Vinci?”
“Not in that way.”
“Hell, yes, in that way,” Anh retorted. “Any woman with a pair of … ovaries would like him in that way.”
Michael shook his head and crossed his arms, knowing when to keep his mouth shut.
Anh handed Vi some Cheerios from her oversized black leather purse (she wouldn't dare carry a diaper bag). “So did you call the yogi yet?”
“A yogi,” Michael said, shaking his head again. “Don't go getting her involved in your Eastern mumbo-jumbo.”
Anh ignored him. “Tell the Repub a little yoga might remove that massive stick up his ass.”
“Stop it, you two. You're worse than my boys.” Anh claimed that I was like a pipe with massive clogged drains keeping “flow” from happening. It all sounded drippy to me, but I'd promised myself I would try new things and that included the possibility that my body did need some spiritual plumbing.
One thing I knew for certain: the Cheetos/Oreos/sad movies method I had prescribed for myself had done zilch for my grief and even less for my body image. I had always considered myself an open person until my loss sealed the door shut. With the help of— what? — I could open it again. I would plow through the ideas in the grief binder like Columbus searching for his New World. Where I would find me again, only God, or Buddha, knew.
Then there was da Vinci, whose coming was both timely and oddly welcome. We began our journeys at the same juncture, side by side as we ventured into the unknown; he trying to start a new life in America, me trying to find the meaning of it again. Anh said we were entering our Renaissance period ( Renaissance: a revival of or renewed interest in something ). The original da Vinci had been a key figure in the sixteenth-century Renaissance, and I had no idea if my da Vinci would play a key role in mine.
With one hard kick, da Vinci scored a goal, and raising his arms in the air, searched me out in the bleachers. I cheered for him and felt the deadbolt unlock, the sound echoing through my soul.
Chapter 4
soul \sol\ n 1 : the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being regarded as immortal 2 : a person's moral or emotional nature or sense of identity ( Origin : Old English)
I GAWKED AT DA VINCI'S naked chest a full three minutes before turning the engine off to retrieve him and regretfully see him slide his T-shirt back on his sweaty, dirt-streaked frame. No shock; I wasn't the only spellbound, jaw-slacked female enjoying the view. When I took my eyes off of him for a split second, I saw a woman walking her dog (more like standing still) staring at him, and another just pull over at the side of the road to take a long peek. I thought, Is this what my life has come to ? Getting my thrills watching a well-built guy planting pansies? Am I so desperate that just watching McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy isn't cutting it for me anymore? And wasn't I going to visit my neighbor Gabriella's deacon this afternoon to talk about the very essence of our being: the soul? To prep for it, I should be waxing existential, not staring at eye candy all afternoon.
It wasn't my fault da Vinci got overheated and took off his shirt. It's not like I asked him to. (Would I dare?) I was just an innocent bystander, giving him a ride back home before I hoofed it to the deacon. So if a girl just happens upon a thing of beauty, it would be rude not to appreciate the artistry of a well-sculpted creation. And it somehow calmed my nerves about meeting with a theologian. Because as open-minded as I am about life, culture, differences, I haven't firmly graspedany one belief about Heaven, God or that mystery
Similar Books
![Dwyer, Dixie Lynn - SWAT Team Two and Miss Robin Hood [The Men of Five-0 #2] (Siren Publishing LoveXtreme Forever)](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/447563/thumbs/152x264/dwyer-dixie-lynn-swat-team-two-and-miss-robin-hood-the-men-of-five-0-2-siren-publishing-lovextreme-forever.jpg)
