Faults and flaws

— "We all know, the young ones, that the church needs to evolve. Somehow, I am glad to be here for those in need. And speaking of those in need…”

His lips quirked up as he fished a shiny packet out of his bag; the very same she had offered him. Frances’ eyes widened dramatically and she nearly jumped up and down like a child.

— “Wow, you actually managed to save some chocolate! You’ve got my admiration until the end of times.”

— “Judgement day,” he deadpanned.

— “Yeah, and beyond. Do you think there will be chocolate in paradise?” she asked.

— “Better than seventy virgins”

Frances laughed this time. A full, genuine laugh that lit her eyes and echoed over the rocky wall that backed them. The sound caused him to pause; he’d never heard her laugh like this. In church, they always conversed in low voices, and kept to chuckles. But here, in the outside world with no one in sight, Frances felt free to be herself and shared his mirth easily.

— “Thank you, Tristan. I needed this. And the chocolate is just too good to be true.”

The priest grinned, his senses floating in glee. How long it had been since he had enjoyed a moment so fully, so easily? She was such a joy to be around, her laugh a beautiful sound that called to the heavens, her delicate features relaxed.

— “The lady cooked the meal, so it seemed fitting that I brought dessert.”

She extracted a thermos of tea from her bag; subtle, hot liquid that they shared in a common bowl, sitting side by side to be able to pass it along. And thus, Frances and Tristan, shrouded in silence, watched the sun run along its course as they shared the delicious chocolates from her home place. For a while, there was nothing more than the mist shredding, the sweetness of sugar coating his tongue, the strength of chocolate, its full, warm savour filling his mouth. And her breathing, so close to him, as she watched the landscape with the contentment of a cat, all muscles relaxed, bathing in sunlight and the pure, crisp air of winter.

A spiritual moment. For him, God, Earth, they were one and the same.

The chocolates disappeared, and Tristan was glad to see that his own sin was shared with the woman by her side. His curiosity, though, extended.

— "Do you drink, Frances ?", he asked on a whim.

The young woman's eyebrows knitted in surprise, her gaze stealing a glance at him before it returned to the river.

— "Sometimes. On special occasions, mostly"

— "Birthdays ?"

This time, she shifted to face him, curiosity written plainly upon her features.

— "No, a good meal"

Tristan nodded; he seldomly drank, and only partook in an acoholic beverage for the sake of socialising.

— "Ah, so, wine ?"

— "Yes. A family tick. My Father is from burgundy"

He wasn't too familiar with the wines of that particular region, especially since they tended to be rather expensive. His family own favours usually remained in more modest domains.

— "I understand, mine if from Bourges, he loves his Sancerre"

— "So do I !", Frances exclaimed with flourish.

The priest smiled; this news that seemed so insignificant caused relief to flood his mind. Wine was for people that enjoyed the taste, not the alcohol. Unless she drunk those horrible boxes the students were fond of sharing. Given the quality of the chocolate she'd offered, he doubted she would swoop so low. Somehow, the idea of Frances being safe from those excesses appeased his worries.

— "Did you ever get drunk ?

The young woman scrunched her nose comically, causing his smile to widen and expose those sharp canines that parishioners so seldom saw.

— "No, I hate the idea of loosing control."

— "I can relate to that"

Hopefully, she would never have to experience the stormed that lurked within his depths. Frances had no reason to suspect that beneath the calm exterior resided a volcano, after all. Yet, somehow, Tristan longed to be seen. He longed for her to suspect and prod, to see the man behind the cloth. If he dared accepting the truth, it was the reason he had accepted to come in the first place. Meeting, outside of church, meant shifting the relationship to friendship.

Frances wasn't done speaking, though, and he focused his attention back to her.

— "My friend, at home, she does enjoy a drink or two and they smoke quite some weed in her flat. That's why I don't like her parties. Last time, her cat was just… stone, you know ? Poor animal, it's not like he can choose…"

The priest cringed at the image, satisfied that Frances would stay clear from such behaviour.

— "Do you ?", she suddenly asked.

— "Sorry, what ?"

Frances gave him a flat look, trying to assess if he was trying to escape sharing, or if his mind had just wandered away.

— "Get drunk", she retorted.

— "Ah, no. It'd be difficult to accept, a drunk priest."

His lips quirked, the image of himself, rolling about on the ground with a bottle, pathetic enough. She seemed to share his mirth, or perhaps the vision because she chuckled behind her hand.

— "I see how it does not fit with the calling", she told him, her chocolate eyes cringing in amusement.

— "And to be honest, I sleep when I had too much to drink"

The young woman perked at that, and, on a whim, bumped his shoulder with hers.

— "Aha ! Same for me, I fall asleep after two glasses. Why did you ask, by the way ?"

— "My sister's son, last summer. I was wondering if all youngsters partake it this."

— "Too many for my taste. I'm probably the only one that never attends my schoolmates' drinking sprees."

Then she frowned; how old could his nephews be to drink so much already ?

— "Wait, how old is your sister that her sons are all grown up ?"

— "She had her first son pretty early, and is 6 years older than I am."

Tristan smirked then; would she be curious enough to ask ? Or retreat into platitudes for the sake of keeping that line intact ?

— "How old are you, Tristan ?"

Nope, the line was gone, and he didn't know whether to be thrilled or appalled. Still, his heart danced; he was in a playful mood today.

— "Can you guess ?"

The challenge was met with an intense look as she studied his face. Was it so wrong to wonder whether she found the lines of his face nice enough ? Then, her lips pursed in defeat.

— "No, actually. You look both young and wise, it is peculiar."

Young and wise. I wish.

— "So are you going to tell me ?", she prodded.

Tristan smiled at her impatience, taking a moment to contemplate the light dancing in her warm irises before he relented.

— "I'm thirty-one."

He didn't know what to expect, nor what he wanted her to say. She was so young…

— "It is a good age, is it not ?"

— "Perhaps."

Her gaze returned to the frozen meander far below.

— "I wonder where I'll be when I'm 31."

She wasn't the only one, for Tristan wondered when she would walk out of his life altogether. Where to ?

— "Only God knows", Frances concluded.

Tristan smiled, finding that his expressions in her mouth sounded different than in church.

When at last, they both decided to return home, the sun had travelled a great deal across the sky. Tristan felt at peace, even more so than when he meditated or communicated. They gathered their gear, and started down the quarry on the narrow path of rolling stones. The magic was gone now, but the spirit remained, and thus their walk back was spent at a leisurely pace.

— “Are you going home for then next session of holidays?” Tristan eventually asked the young woman when they settled in the car.

Her face fell at once, and the priest berated himself for asking the wrong question. Yet, he couldn’t fathom what was wrong.

— “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

The frown that had settled on her face cleared at once.

— “Oh no! I mean. You are not prying, I just… I’m supposed to take a few days in the south west of France with Matthew, but I feel like he’s not as thrilled as I am.”

— “About spending time with you?”

After the joy this afternoon had brought him, Tristan couldn’t possibly fathom how a man wouldn’t want to be with a woman like her. Frances sighed, and the defeated expression broke his heart.

— “About anything, honestly. I think he suffers from mild depression, but doesn’t want to admit it. And I’m tired of holding him up above the surface. Perhaps I should join my brother skiing instead, but that would mean giving up on him…”

Tristan frowned then, looking out of the window to gather his thoughts. So perhaps the man wasn’t a manipulator as he feared, but he was still draining Frances’ energy all the same. And she didn’t have much to spare in the first place, albeit this little woman was sturdier than she looked.

— “You think I am overreacting?” she eventually asked, misinterpreting his silence.

— “No, on the contrary”

The young woman bit her lip, keeping her eyes firmly on the road. She needed to talk, and Tristan reverted to his active listening habits.

— “I can’t really talk about him with my family, my mother hates him and my Father … he is too respectful to say anything.”

— “Why?”

Oh, he had an idea why, but he needed Frances to go along with the idea and get acquainted with it. Consciously.

— “They think he is not taking care of me, I guess.”

— “I would quite concur with your parents on this. But if the man suffers from depression, it is hardly surprising.”

His analysis seemed to strike a chord. Taking advantage of a red traffic light, Frances stole a glance at him.

— “I just don’t know what to do. I’m tired of struggling.”

The priest gave her an intense look, trying to catch her thoughts without being too overwhelming. By the way she lowered her gaze, he knew he had failed. At this point, then, better to throw the pebble in the pond. Hence his thousand dollar question.

— “Forgive me for asking, but do you still love him?”

The light turned to green and Frances took advantage of the traffic to delay her answer. There was no “yes” or “no” forthcoming at this point, but it was to be expected.

— “I … I thought I had touched his soul, you know. At first, I didn’t even notice what he looked like because we shared such a connection. It was nothing physical.”

— “And now?”

Tristan cringed at his own pushiness, but Frances was begging, unconsciously, for his help.

— “His soul is buried under a ton of dirt, and I don’t even catch a glimpse anymore. I am tired of being the one to reach for him, and drag him away from all this weight. He insists things are going to change, that he will get better, but it doesn’t happen. When he comes around, he watches TV all day, except for a restaurant in the evening. When I come to him, it’s just the same. You see the kind of woman I am … this is not what I want with my life!”

Yes, he had seen, quite brilliantly the kind of woman she was. A female alter ego, with less anger, and more light. A free soul, that thrived in the outdoors and enjoyed kindness like no other. She was so beautiful, inside out, and he hated to see her hurt. Yet, he needed to remain as neutral as possible if he wanted to help her find her way.

— “You feel like the connection is broken?”

Sadness washed over her lovely features, and Tristan had to refrain from the urge to grab her hand into his. His mind ached to give reassurance and support, but he had already crossed a line today. Better to keep physical contact scarce.

— “Yeah. He’s not the man I fell in love with, but I feel like I’m giving up on him. If I leave him, who is going to keep him afloat?”

— “Sometimes, Frances, people need to learn by themselves. Even children, yet it is a self appointed role to be a mother. But you were not meant to do this, as a companion”

He saw how his words impacted her, how doubts had taken root deep within. Was her guilt triggered by her boyfriend’s pleas, or self-inflicted?

— “What happens to ‘in sickness and in health’? To the support owed by spouses ?”

Good point, once more. Quoting marriage vows. She would have been a terrible adversary, in the history of holy wars, had she learnt theology. But he knew more proverbs than she did and had no reservations to use them.

— “The same as ‘God helps those who help themselves’. You can’t haul someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

Silence settled in the car once more as she headed to the city centre to drop him off. Tristan pushed the pang of sadness away; he needed to keep his poise if he wanted her to hear him.

— “Thank you, Tristan. You always bring such clarity”

A strange wave of relief flooded him and the priest reclined in the passenger seat, true warmth permeating his features.

— “And I thank you the same, for I have learnt much from you. You are a very interesting young woman, Frances, and I have received from you just as much as I have given.”

The dazzling smile she addressed him left him a little bereft.

— “Give the other cheek, then”, she quipped.

Their laugher mingled in the car.