Boys don’t usually ask me out. My fabulousness is too intimidating for them.
More probably, they can tell that I have the maturity level of a 13-year-old, and that I would probably freak out if they did.
That’s completely fine with me, because I do freak out on the rare occasions these things happen.
Today I was standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street. A guy with hairy arms and a Fedora approached me.
Guy: “Excuse me, I can’t read. Will you read the Bible to me?”
Friends, it was 9:00 in the evening. I had walked to the post box to mail a magnetic bingo game to a lady from my church (long story, don’t ask). It was pretty outside. The sun was just setting, casting a soft orange light over everything. A small, dimly-lit Italian restaurant nearby still had a handful of customers, lingering over dessert, their conversations melting together in a jumbled medley of human voices. I had been waiting for the “Walk” light, watching the cars go by, and leaning on an old telephone pole, plastered with nails and staples and posters of lost dogs and benefit dinners.
It was a really weird time of day for illiterate strangers to be asking for Bible help.
He grinned. “Well, not now, but, you know, sometime.”
I just stared at him cluelessly.
Guy: “Wasn’t that a good question?! Huh? Huh? Of course, you know, I can read, but I just thought, you know, because of your dress, I’d ask you, you know, like . . . the Bible . . . you know?”
I did what I always do in moments of extreme awkwardness. I started giggling.
Fortunately, the light changed and I walked awkwardly away.