Free The Breath of God by Jeffrey Small Page B

India, delighted to have a young, attractive woman for company. As he spoke, she hopped onto the knee wall and sat cross-legged next to him. He noticed a two-inch-wide strand of burgundy hair nestled in among her natural jet black locks. Like her hands, her face suggested a delicate bone structure, but she held his gaze as confidently as she’d held her grip. Her eyes shone with an intense blue that one might find in a person of Scandinavian descent but were shaped like the Asian heritage her last name implied. While the hair and the clothes said “artsy” to him, not his type—too much unpredictability and drama—she was stunning. He tried not to stare.

    When he finished describing his journey, she asked, “So, religious studies PhD—planning on becoming a priest?”
    â€œMe, a minister?” He laughed. The image of his father immediately popped into his head: the flushed face berating his parishioners about the consequences of their sins and frightening them with his mythology of the End Times with the same sanctimonious tone he used to hound Grant at the dinner table. He forced the memory out of his mind.
    â€œNo, I’m strictly an academic. Research and writing. Maybe teach some, if I can get around my whole public speaking problem.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Something in the directness of her gaze made him forget about his internal censor. Admitting a weakness like that was not the way to impress a woman.
    â€œA speaking phobia,” she said, as if turning over in her mind what this said about him.
    â€œOh, it’s not a phobia, I mean, I’m not even that bad at it. I just prefer one-on-one discussions where I can delve into the issues deeper with a person.”
    She smiled at him like she wasn’t totally buying it.
    He decided to change the subject. “So, Kris, how did you end up here?”
    â€œI’d prefer you not call me that. Only my sister called me Kris.”
    â€œSorry, Kristin,” Grant said, taken aback. He noted the use of the past tense but decided not to pry.
    She tossed her hair from her face and toyed with one of the silver elephant earrings that dangled from ears that, to Grant’s surprise, only contained a single piercing each. “Travel writer.”
    â€œProfessionally?”
    â€œFreelance for several magazines.”
    A writer . So, he was correct. The artsy type. “Must be a tough life, never in one place for long.”
    She shook her head. “Don’t have to answer to anyone, and I can pick up and go at a moment’s notice.”
    â€œIsn’t it lonely?”
    â€œNever needed someone to take care of me.” She winked at him. “Plus, I meet interesting people everywhere.”

    â€œSounds liberating.” Actually, Grant couldn’t imagine a life so unstructured.
    â€œWe have something in common.” She touched his forearm. “Before coming here, I was in India too. I’m doing an article for Vanity Fair on Eastern religious rituals and celebrations.” She moved her hand to his cast, where she tweaked a bit of the torn plaster. “Late as usual for my deadline, though.”
    Grant found the final piece of information unsurprising—attractive and creative, but disorganized. Then he remembered the state of his own work.
    â€œHere, take a look,” she said. “Photos of my travels.” After fiddling with a few buttons on the back of the Nikon, she handed it to him. “Hit the right arrow to scroll.”
    Grant stared at the three-inch LCD screen. Although the image was small, the rawness of the emotion grabbed him. An Indian girl in her early teens gazed at him. Her face was feminine, beautiful but smudged with dirt. The expression in her eyes, however, affected him most—a melancholy resignation, the result, no doubt, of having grown up in conditions he couldn’t even comprehend. The subsequent photos all