I was out behind the church, smoking. It's an outdoor sport, these days.
The back door gives onto a hillside, which is pretty steep. It makes a shelf partway down, but then really drops off. At the bottom are parking lots behind the Harlow Street businesses, but you can't see them through the trees, at least, not until all the leaves have fallen.
I heard voices down on the shelf. It's sheltered there. Kids go there to deal, smoke or maybe make out, and sometimes street people sleep there among the trees. I've been down there; there's a fire pit, even. The voices rose and became sharp-- some altercation, probably. Then a man's voice was raised in exasperation, enough so I could hear the words.
"Well,
Christ!
You
know
what to do to fix this. Don't ya? Well?"
"No," she wailed.
"Well,
fuck
you, then! Winter's just around the fuckin corner, ain't it?"
"Mm-hm."
"Jesus! You gonna get out there and make money, or freeze?" There was a silence at this, so he kept on. They seemed to be moving. "Look. You know I wouldn't ask ya. You know I love ya. But we gotta have a room, honey. We gotta have a room pretty soon, you can see that. Right?"
His voice had become much softer now, but they were coming up the steep path my way. Maybe I already knew, but I held my ground. The guy came into view behind her; I saw him notice me.
"Go on," he urged her. She saw me, then, and she turned to him. He nodded and squeezed her hand. "Go on now."
She watched him fade down into the trees a second, then turned a stricken face to me. She was maybe thirty. Maybe younger than that; people age quicker on the street. She was wearing a collection of other people's stuff. I smiled, but turned to go back to my desk.
"Wait!" I heard the rustling of the bushes at her feet. "Wait!"
She hesitated on the edge of the pavement, to adjust her jacket and smooth the jeans. Curls slid back, revealing the curve of her neck. In profile against the shadows she suddenly looked younger. It was just a blink of time, and all unconscious. A woman paying attention to her details, even in Goodwill clothes. I love that about women.
But I knew she was marshalling her forces against me. I began framing my excuse to the lady.
"You work here?"
I nodded.
"You going inside?"
"I was just smoking. Do you need something?"
"Got some coffee or something? It's chilly."
Well, I didn't have an excuse for that. "Yes. Come in, if you like. Get warm."
"Thanks a lot-- "
"What about him?" I gestured toward the hillside. A flicker of panic crossed her face, but she recovered.
"He's gotta catch the bus, to go to work; he'll be fine."
"Ah."
She smiled and thanked me on the way in. She took the first seat she came to, right by the door, but I gave her the swivel chair at the treasurer's desk so she'd have the desktop. I did the cream-or-sugar ritual, and we both settled at the desks with coffee. So far she's hardly lied to me at all, I thought.
"Relax," I told her. "This isn't one of the treasurer's days; you can have the desk and you won't be in the way."
It had to be about me, because her own situation, an ongoing catastrophe of homelessness and desperation, doesn't make very good small talk. I answered questions about the church, spoke about what I do. I was expansive so there'd be something to talk about. We evaluated each other. Being a guy, I probably would have checked her out anyway.
She was quick on the uptake, smart. She looked like a beautiful woman who'd been left outside in the weather too long-- an eroded loveliness. She had tucked a foot up onto the wheel thing under the swivel chair and crossed the other over her knee; it was defensive, but it gave me her legs. She sipped with her elbows propped on the seat back and on her thigh, turned sideways.
"So you're the only one here?"
"Yeah; the sexton will be in about eleven." This was it. "Sometimes people come by for one reason or another-- rehearsals, using the copier, counseling, setting up for suppers."
Her legs came down and she stood. To put down the coffee, she had to turn. It was a graceful move and she looked briefly beautiful again. There; she tugged down the jacket and patted her hair. Details.
"Lemme get this off," she muttered. She unzipped the jacket.
"Already warmer? Good." My throat was dry. She had my attention.
The jacket came off. "It feels good to get warm," she said.
Her arms crossed and she pulled the hem of the sweatshirt up over her face. The light blouse under it was black and gauzy; I could see right through it beyond its stripes to her skin, her navel. Her bra showed clearly. The sweatshirt came free, her smile glinted. She arranged herself again and took up the coffee. I was still watching every move.
She folded the sweatshirt onto the desk and put the jacket back on. This time, she sat nearer, feet together on the wheels under the chair. More coffee.
"Look, Reverend," she says.
I broke away, but only to put the coffeepot back. "Pastor."
"Look, you're not stupid; you know I need money."
