thing to be in love?”
“No.” I look up at her and shake my head. “It’s actually the worst feeling in the world. It’s agonizical.”
“Is that a real word?” she asks.
“I just made it up,” I say. “I tend to do that. I make up words. Sometimes there are never the right ones, you know?”
“What does agonizical mean?” she asks.
I hold up my hands like it’s obvious. “To be consumed with shock and denial at unrequited love from the man who is supposed to be your soul mate,” I say. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. I blow out a sigh.
“Unrequited?” she says and sits down across from me. I pick up a piece of thick, yellow bread lathered in butter and I take an enormous bite. Even the whipped butter tastes sweet and homemade.
“Are you saying that man out there isn’t in love with you?” she asks and points at the door. I look in the direction she’s pointing, down the hallway.
“He has a girlfriend,” I say through a mouthful of bread.
She laughs again. “Well, honey, I can guarantee you he’s only thinking about one girl right now. And it’s not his girlfriend.”
I raise my eyebrows and look around her kitchen for a sign advertising psychic readings.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“There’s a trick to understanding all men,” she claims.
I lean closer to her over the table, intrigued.
“If you want to know what a man is thinking about just watch his eyes,” she says. “Where a man’s eyes go, that is where his heart is. It’s like the two are linked. That’s how I met my husband. We were at a party and he was with another girl at the time. But his eyes never left me. They followed me around the room all night. We were dating a week later.” She points back towards the living room. “That boy’s eyes have been following you since you two walked in the door.”
“Probably because he thinks I’m nuts,” I say, which is a much more likely hypothesis.
“They usually do, dear. It’s another sign they’re in love. When a man tells you that you’re insane, it’s really his way of professing his love.”
I smile. I’ve never met this woman before, but I’ve decided she’s an angel, or maybe a messenger of Fate. I stare into her brown eyes, and notice the whites are webbed with thin red spidery veins. They’re beautiful and complicated and I can tell she’s lived her life without ever missing a single detail.
I gulp down the corn bread with a glass of milk and my stomach is relishing the flavor and my mind is reveling in her words. Rain starts to hit the side of the window, but the storm isn’t angry anymore. It’s like a cleansing shower, washing away my heavy thoughts, flushing them from my mind like branches down a stream.
We head back into the living room and Gray’s eyes snap to me when I walk through the door. I feel a rush of nerves ball in my stomach when our eyes meet. My body is still adjusting to the shock of his presence. A tornado warning scrolls along the bottom of the screen and we all turn to read the weather report.
“A cold front’s moving through,” Chris informs us. “And it’s taking its sweet time. It’s supposed to storm all night.” The warning statement runs across the screen like a teleprompter: expect golf ball sized hail, dangerous lightening, and wind gusts up to seventy-miles-an-hour. Seek shelter. Do not go outside.
“How far is it to the nearest town?” I ask.
“About forty miles,” Chris says. He takes a sip of beer. “The towns are all under flash floods. I’d consider trading in your car for a boat.”
I look at Gray and notice his eyes widen.
“He’s just joking around. You kids aren’t going anywhere,” Sue Anne says. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight. Follow me,” she says and Gray stands up. I walk behind Sue Anne and Gray walks a few feet behind me. When we stop in front of a closed door, he almost stumbles into me and I feel a jolt run up my back.
I’ve
“No.” I look up at her and shake my head. “It’s actually the worst feeling in the world. It’s agonizical.”
“Is that a real word?” she asks.
“I just made it up,” I say. “I tend to do that. I make up words. Sometimes there are never the right ones, you know?”
“What does agonizical mean?” she asks.
I hold up my hands like it’s obvious. “To be consumed with shock and denial at unrequited love from the man who is supposed to be your soul mate,” I say. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. I blow out a sigh.
“Unrequited?” she says and sits down across from me. I pick up a piece of thick, yellow bread lathered in butter and I take an enormous bite. Even the whipped butter tastes sweet and homemade.
“Are you saying that man out there isn’t in love with you?” she asks and points at the door. I look in the direction she’s pointing, down the hallway.
“He has a girlfriend,” I say through a mouthful of bread.
She laughs again. “Well, honey, I can guarantee you he’s only thinking about one girl right now. And it’s not his girlfriend.”
I raise my eyebrows and look around her kitchen for a sign advertising psychic readings.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“There’s a trick to understanding all men,” she claims.
I lean closer to her over the table, intrigued.
“If you want to know what a man is thinking about just watch his eyes,” she says. “Where a man’s eyes go, that is where his heart is. It’s like the two are linked. That’s how I met my husband. We were at a party and he was with another girl at the time. But his eyes never left me. They followed me around the room all night. We were dating a week later.” She points back towards the living room. “That boy’s eyes have been following you since you two walked in the door.”
“Probably because he thinks I’m nuts,” I say, which is a much more likely hypothesis.
“They usually do, dear. It’s another sign they’re in love. When a man tells you that you’re insane, it’s really his way of professing his love.”
I smile. I’ve never met this woman before, but I’ve decided she’s an angel, or maybe a messenger of Fate. I stare into her brown eyes, and notice the whites are webbed with thin red spidery veins. They’re beautiful and complicated and I can tell she’s lived her life without ever missing a single detail.
I gulp down the corn bread with a glass of milk and my stomach is relishing the flavor and my mind is reveling in her words. Rain starts to hit the side of the window, but the storm isn’t angry anymore. It’s like a cleansing shower, washing away my heavy thoughts, flushing them from my mind like branches down a stream.
We head back into the living room and Gray’s eyes snap to me when I walk through the door. I feel a rush of nerves ball in my stomach when our eyes meet. My body is still adjusting to the shock of his presence. A tornado warning scrolls along the bottom of the screen and we all turn to read the weather report.
“A cold front’s moving through,” Chris informs us. “And it’s taking its sweet time. It’s supposed to storm all night.” The warning statement runs across the screen like a teleprompter: expect golf ball sized hail, dangerous lightening, and wind gusts up to seventy-miles-an-hour. Seek shelter. Do not go outside.
“How far is it to the nearest town?” I ask.
“About forty miles,” Chris says. He takes a sip of beer. “The towns are all under flash floods. I’d consider trading in your car for a boat.”
I look at Gray and notice his eyes widen.
“He’s just joking around. You kids aren’t going anywhere,” Sue Anne says. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight. Follow me,” she says and Gray stands up. I walk behind Sue Anne and Gray walks a few feet behind me. When we stop in front of a closed door, he almost stumbles into me and I feel a jolt run up my back.
I’ve
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