She walks slowly. I see her come in, laboriously genuflect, and gently settle in to the pew right in front of me. She’s spare, with a straight back. I’m supposed to be adoring, but she’s in my line of vision and so I watch her, the King in the background, watching me. She unties her  scarf  – it’s one of those blue gauze ones that women of her age wear to protect their hot-rollered hair. Sometimes a small smacking sound comes from her mouth – tiny and lady like, but distinct in the quiet chapel.

Her hands are beautiful – skin translucent with age, long straight fingers, red painted nails. She folds her scarf slowly, just so, her lips working more. I hold my breath, hypnotized by the floating blue film, waiting for the next smack. Mouth noises usually bother me no end, but these tiny sounds are mesmerizing. I suspect this makes me really strange, and Cisco agrees. Violet lays the scarf on the pew next to her, and picks up her Rosary. For the next hour she sits straight, barely moving, watching Him.

I haven’t seen her in weeks now. I hope she’s alright. I’m not even quite sure what made such a big impression. Violet’s just… lovely. She has a dignity of state that only comes with age, I think. I’m hoping it does, anyway, or there’s no hope for me. I want to move deliberately like her, with the native grace of my sex instead of the native grace of the rhinoceros. I’d like to figure out what ever it is that Violet’s figured out.

I hope in fifty years I’m still in the chapel, smacking my lips and looking at Him while He looks at me.


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