Free The Unconventional (A Short Story) by Raen Smith Page B

footsteps of
someone behind me. I step to the edge of the sidewalk and turn to
see a woman walking toward me in a black trench coat and matching
gloves and hat. In fact, she’s covered in black except for a bright
red scarf wound tight around the lower half of her face and neck.
All I can see are her big, beautiful eyes.
    “ You coming?” Her voice is
muffled through the scarf, but it’s clear enough to hear that it’s
warm and enticing. It’s less of a question and more of a statement.
She expects me to say yes.
    She keeps walking, not waiting for me
to respond as she passes. She expects me to follow her. So I do,
and I forget about the fact that I don’t think I’m an addict. Half
these people probably think the same thing, anyway. It’s called
denial, at least for them.
    I jog to catch up to her quick
strides. The wind bites at me with sharp whips so I keep my mouth
shut, and my head ducked down. Her black boots are laced all the
way up her shins, the bow of the laces near her knees bouncing
lightly with each step. I take the stairs by twos and beat her to
the matching wooden doors brightened by an overhead light. I pull
the left side, but it doesn’t budge. By the time I make it the
other side, her black glove is already on the handle. My hand
crashes against her glove and then she meets my eyes in a momentary
gaze.
    Her skin is smooth and flushed a deep
pink from the wind. The corners of her eyes are damp and her irises
glisten beneath dark lashes. Her eyes are steady on me, curious, as
she finally opens the door and says, “After you.”
    I would argue this point since I’m
typically a chivalrous kind of guy, but I’m freezing, and the
longer we stand out here and argue who opens what door, the odds of
frostbite increases. I have pretty horrible luck so I duck my head
into the warmth and dim lighting of the church foyer. Besides the
two sconces lit near the door, the rest of the church is black. The
smell of incense and oil seeps through the air. She follows me in,
slamming the door with a shudder.
    She stomps her boots.
    I stomp my shoes.
    “ What kind of fool are you?”
she asks, pointing down to my shoes. Her voice is still muffled
through the scarf. “And no hat? Some fucking people.” She pulls off
her hat and shakes out her hair. The black wavy locks are wild and
big with blue tips that look as if she dipped the bottom of her
hair in paint. She pulls her scarf from her mouth, keeping her eyes
on me the entire time.
    “ We’re in a church,” I
whisper, studying her delicate nose and the curve of her pale pink
lips. Her cheekbones are high and her features are small, except
for her eyes. The woman’s all eyes. They’re mysterious and a deep
toffee color, the kind of eyes that hold more secrets than you can
possibly imagine. More secrets than someone her age should have. I
don’t peg her much over twenty-five.
    “ Fuck,” she says as she
makes the sign of the cross and genuflects with a smile on her
face. “Sorry Father. Absolve me of my sins.”
    She stands back up, and for whatever
reason, I find relief that I’m in this church standing next to a
woman who’s swearing and making peace with God at the same time.
The next hour should be interesting.
    I’ll look back on this moment and
wonder if I should have made peace with God then. I wonder if
things would have turned out differently if I’d had a little talk
with God. You know, mortal man to ruler of life. Instead, I strike
up a conversation with the mysterious woman.
    “ Archie Briggs,” I say,
holding out my hand.
    “ Sloan.” She meets my hand
with her glove.
    “ That’s it? Just Sloan?” I
ask, dropping her firm shake. “You only go by your first name? Like
Madonna? Or God?”
    “ Carraway. It’s Sloan
Carraway,” she finishes with a bat of her eyelashes.
    “ I don’t know any
Carraways.”
    “ I’m not from here. I
transplanted.”
    “ I can’t say many people
find their way to Zion.”
    She cocks her head to the