Bruno was invited to join the Good-looking people from his Bible study group following the weekly lecture. There were three predominant groups at this, rather large, singles Bible study: the Good-looking, the Homely, and the Inbetweeners. Bruno usually mingled among all three, related to them all in someway, but he found the most resistance among the Good-looking, a silent war between homo-hormones and egos. But it must have been a mix up, he got caught in the traffic between the handsome men and women. Bruno was handsome, but their coolness and indifference were intimidating. Bruno was too often betrayed by his flowering doubt.

How it happened: the women were invited out to “fellowship,” Bruno was talking to the women, caught in the middle he was invited along, “You can come, too, Bruno.” Christian charity.

At the time Bruno was actually feeling like he had made a good impression on the handsome women. He had felt like things were rolling quite nicely, so why not continue it? He accepted the invitation. All three of the women seemed animated and interested in him coming. From them there was no hidden animosity, but that was because he wasn’t their competition. He was hoping, though, that he was being fought for.

In the car ride over he thanked God for bringing this opportunity. He had only a week ago written one of these women, Mable, a sonnet. He didn’t really know her well, at all really, but wanted to get to know her better, to ask her out. He always screwed things up and seemed to make things awkward when he pursued women, so he planned a sonnet to steer his mouth. So often those moments of execution locked his brain where his mouth followed. If rejected at least she might be touched by the poetry and would have a story to tell. The poem might even relieve him from the shame, for a bit, from his past. In his eyes his baggage always seemed to powder up, fogging over any shine that was only just there. It was always ready in the lower folds of his eyelids, crowding his tear ducts, for the slightest sign of heart flutter. His poem, he hoped, would be distraction enough.

That hope, itself, was distracted the next day, when following Mable out to her car found her embracing a tall red-haired man. Bruno’s poem suddenly joined the rest of his collection in their impracticality. He drove home dreaming of life-long celibacy.

This week had promise. Mable, who is taken, proved to be a bit caddy when Bruno briefly spoke to her leaving him grateful for his deferred hopes. This week still had promise: Elisabeth, the nurse. This much he gleaned from her short, but lit, conversation before the invitation: her name used an “s” instead of the common “z.”

to be continued…