Prospect?

Church.

I walked in at what I thought was a respectable hour, only to see that Anita had arrived before me and was seated in her routine position, next to a window on the far right. Most seats were still empty, including the one next to her. She was well-dressed in an exquisitely patterned green dress. With her, if anything is worth wearing, it shall not escape accessorizing with a matching color ensemble. Her Bible lay open on her laps, her gaze was fixed in a thoughtful, preoccupied gaze outside, she was frozen in thought, solemnly staring at nothing specific: a beautiful sight. I settled next to her.

A fit of whispering ensued:

“The prodigal returns.” 

“I’d gone to the village. Camp-meeting week.” 

“Ama camp-meeting month! I was saving your seat the whole time.” 

“Sorry.”

Sitting next to Anita in church is always worthwhile. We sing the hymns with gusto. And we don’t let one another drift off the program and sink into oceans of daydreams, because the other will elbow one’s ribcage. From the way she keeps me on my toes, I suspect she was a particularly unpopular high school prefect some time past, or is just a natural-born tyrant with a refined taste for discipline, or maybe she just plays like that. I DON’T KNOW.

I on the other hand am an unabashedly happy-go-lucky sort. However, Anita’s presence, character and influence make me reflect on my goings deeply, twice.

“You don’t know where Thessalonians is?” she says later on, midway through the sermon, as we turn to scripture at the preacher’s behest. 

“Page 1252.” I’ve just checked my table of contents.
“Fine; after which book?”
“Get off my case,” I deflect.
She assumes a severe look, while reciting all the New Testament books in precise order.
“Impressive.” I say, nodding sagely. “Now, pay attention.”

We get along well. But she makes me sense that my standards could be too low - I fear she’s too perfect for me.