Pink - By Jenny Argante

Today I’m finally going to do it. Plonk myself beside him and say, “Hi.” My one New Year’s resolution and I’m terrified. But I’m going to do it anyway.

He’s good-looking, but why should that scare me? I’m not so bad myself, especially in my new pink sundress, a Christmas prezzie from Mum, who firmly instructed me not to wear it to Mass. Pink has always been my favourite colour, though Mum prefers me in green. I’ve got green eyes and my hair is Irish red, and when I want to I can stand out in a crowd – not so good when I was at school and my nickname was Marigold. My friends still call me that, but when I introduce myself, I’ll say, “Hi, my name’s Christine”, and hold out my hand.

Wait a bit. If we’re sitting side by side, that’ll be tricky. Perhaps I could drop my magazine on the floor and when I pick it up, I’ll smile and say … Say what? “Ooh, sorry, didn’t mean to put my face in your lap.”

Forget it.

Why am I making this so hard? It’s not like I’ve never been out with a good-looking guy. There’s been Joel and Harry and Sean … No, forget Sean … Bruce and Benjie … Come to think of it, my track record isn’t that hot. But hey! I was younger then. People can learn from their mistakes. That’s what mistakes are for.

A final slick of vanilla-flavoured lip gloss and I’m off to catch the yellow Hopper into town. I’ve checked the summer timetable, and I’m well on time.

There’s a whispering breeze and the sun holds nothing back. The first bus is for Matua and I let it pass. He’ll be on the 8.40 to Willow Street. He’s been on it every day for the last two weeks. He’s tall, he’s dark, and he’s better looking than Brad. He wears shorts and a T and some serious trainers, and gets off at the gym.

His eyes are fringed with coal-black lashes and steel-blue. Now and then he rests them on me. Last time it was five seconds before he broke contact. I was shivery all over like I was coming down with flu. I feel shivery now as the bus trundles down Grange Road. The coins I take from my purse are cool in my sticky-warm hand.

I get on and pay the driver, peering anxiously down the aisle. He’s three seats down and all alone. Oh, thank you, God. And the bus is full enough so there’s nothing obvious about me making my way towards him.

He looks up, half-smiles, moves over. I sit down and my throat closes up and my brain switches off. He goes back to his book. He’s always reading. He must be an intellectual.

I risk another sideways glance. It’s big enough, that book, to keep me going for weeks. Perhaps it’s a Jackie Collins bonkbuster. I giggle and he turns his head. Our eyes meet. He keeps his finger inside the book and smiles again as I turn the giggle into a cough.

“Still as hot as ever.”

I clear my throat. “Yes.”

He goes back to his reading and I go into shock. That’s it? That’s the best I can do? One word won’t build a relationship. Though ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ are both important in the man-woman thing. ‘Yes’ is great – when you want to say ‘Yes’, and as for ‘No’ – it’s only rejection, after all. And he’s not Brad Pitt; or even Prince William. He’s…. simply superb. I deserve him. I should’ve put him on my Christmas wish list.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and turn to him, smiling. “Good book, is it?” (Listen, I didn’t promise to be original.)

“Beg pardon?”

I point to the book. “Good, is it? Only I couldn’t help noticing you read it every day.”

He looks at me, at the book, and laughs. “Yes, it’s a very good book.”

“Only since you seem to enjoy it so much I thought I might get it from the library. Do you think they’ll have a copy?” Perhaps he’ll come with me and help me find it.

“They’d be sure to.”  His smile is wider than ever. He shuts the book with a snap. He must think a lot of it to put that fancy cover on.

“So what is it?” I persist, holding out my hand. “I could pop in at lunch time and ask. Or buy a copy from Books-a-Plenty.”

He hesitates, then hands it over. I’m not looking at the book as our hands touch and our eyes meet. I’m melting; breathless. On a roll.

I did it, I did it. Maybe he’ll lend me his copy and we’ll have to meet next week so I can return it and then … My heart beats faster. I must calm down.

I’m holding the book and it’s surprisingly heavy. I open it up and read the title page.

The Bible.

The Holy Bible.

And under the title an inscription, bold and black: “To Father Damien on the occasion of his ordination. October 2005.” Then something in Latin signed by the Bishop.

Oh, God and His angels forgive me. I’ve had the hots for a priest. I’ve got to get off the bus.

Oh, hell.

© Jenny Argante