At Least They're Committed

“It’s heinous.”

“Yeah! I know, right? Where ya been? Coming to visit for St. Paddy’s Day? My grandma’s birthday and my aunt’s birthday . . . big day for my family. Woohoo!”

“Right. Hope it’s a nice weekend.”

“You going to be here? No? Wondering, now, on FB if anyone other than Tom remembers that particular ‘Wayne’s World’ episode that goes with the photo.”

“You care?”

“Hmm, no. But if it’s not fun, why bother?”

“Riiight. You know, your attempts to look scary are little more than amusing.”

“Ya, thiiiiiink? OK,” I curl my legs up onto my lap. “Seriously, I work so hard at it! But, like what the fuck do I know? And what the fuck was up with happy hour?”

He chuckles.

“I saw him, I saw him from across the room looking at me, ME, why? He’d never seen me before.”

“That was fucking hilarious!”

“Oh, so you were there? He didn’t even make eye contact, yet I knew he’d seen me and was working his way toward me. Took him a whole half hour, but every move was so deliberate.”

“He ended up going to great lengths to involve you in the conversation,” he says, his brow furrowing in mock concern, then he lightens. “Of course I was there. He didn’t touch, did he? Rest my case.”

“Zactly! He worked the room, then he hung with us, walked me and my bff to her car, and then went with me to pick up my way-cool new office tin signs at the store, then took the bus home with me — it was his bus, too, but he waited an extra half hour when he found out I ride it too. Seriously, why?”

Gabriel is sitting at the head of the table, grinning in a way that mimics my creepy grin on here. I’m sitting at the foot. It’s a long table. It’s, like, cool.

“The truth is out there!” he teases.

“Hmmm. My favorite episode is the Cherubim,” I sigh.

“And none of that makes sense to you?”

“Don’t even say that,” says I.

There is a long silence and he pushes back in his chair, my mind wanders backward in time and he picks up on my thoughts.

“Back when I reminded you at the pond about the one, the one who had moved beyond you . . .” he gets serious.

I nod my head, the hat flopping forward and back, feeling a little silly because the photo doesn’t show it, but it has “kiss me I’m Irish” on it, even though I’m only one-third Irish, and we’re talking about deep shit.

“He didn’t, did he?”

No, I shake my head. “He said lots of stuff once recently when he got drunk. He’s a good friend, not a best friend or anything, but a good man. I was worried . . . ”

He nods, he knows.

I straighten as if hopeful, “Would they lock me away if they knew I talked to angels?”

“You tried that once, didn’t work.”

I sigh. Sanity is so boorish.