Christian separated and dating
I sounded as if I were reading off the menu from Le Pain Quotidian, but he humored me with applause.
“You’re accent is superb,” he said.“Thank you,” I said, flattered.
On our first date, Patrick suggested we take a Sunday afternoon walk on the Highline after our respective church services.
As I climbed the last of the steps to the top of the old train platform, I recognized him right away.
I pictured them sitting together at a desk, poring over social science proofs and speaking secret words to each other.“It’s been a year,” he said, and steered me with his hand to a bench, brushing away dead leaves.
That’s when I noticed a small, plastic ring he was wearing on his pinky finger, on an otherwise ringless left hand.“Oh, that.” He played with the ring, turning it on his finger.
I have something to tell you.” When Patrick suddenly sent me this text, I knew it couldn’t be a good thing.
I imagined a sun-bronzed goddess in an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse.
I figured this was the most authentic act of faith: to listen and forgive.
We met at a nicer restaurant across the street from the Mc Donald’s.
He was handsome, wore glasses, was going slightly gray, and edged a little on the nerdy side: perfect.
I was a 33-year-old Lutheran deacon-in-training trying to convince myself I didn’t want to have sex with him, even though I did.