Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 4

I dread the next words out of Peter's mouth.

Dread them.

I know it will make me die a little inside when he says it.

And he will say it.

Everyone says it. Every single damn guy I ever meet.

They hear my name and they say: "Charity, huh? Where are your sisters Faith and Hope?"

Or some variation thereof.

Always followed a self-impressed stupid grin.

As if I have never heard that joke before.

As if that joke is remotely funny. At all.

As if it is even a little bit original or clever or endearing to ask a girl named Charity about her — Ha-Ha! — supposed sisters — Ha-Ha! — Faith and — Ho-Ho! — Hope.

As if.

And most times I smile a tight little annoyed smile and I laugh a stupid little laugh and I say, "Oh, no, I don't have any sisters named Faith and Hope." and I resist the urge to smack.

That we're an hour or more into our date and Peter hasn't made this stupid, trite, annoying, idiotic, makes-my-blood-boil, lame, infuriating joke was another glossy layer of perfect on his defined cheekbones, strong jaw, kissable mouth, flawless hair, broad shoulders, well-dressed, handsome, charming perfection.

Not that I was waiting for him to say it. I wasn't.

Maybe in the first few minutes. Maybe.

But I'm not sure I was thinking anything then.

He picked me up in a limo.

I walked out the door of my crummy building in the East Village to find Peter waiting on the sidewalk with a limo and driver ready to go.

For real.

Swept away. Off my feet.

Momentary suspicion the whole thing was a setup for some dumb reality show.

But I didn't see any cameras, hidden or otherwise.

Not, I suppose, that I would see hidden cameras anyway.

Tells me I look ravishing. Kiss on the cheek. Squires me into the plush and spacious and astoundingly quiet cabin of the limo.

Not a peep about my name.

Not a hint of interest in the whereabouts of my non-existent sisters.

Really, that sort of thing was beneath a man like Peter Sutaf.

(Which is exactly where I'd like to be right about ... Stop it!)

Far, far, beneath him.

Until now.

It's not like this is going to ruin my entire evening.

It's not like it makes him measurably less amazing.

It doesn't uncheck any boxes.

It's more of a slight letdown.

A wrong note in an otherwise flawless performance.

A tiny chip in a fine porcelain tea cup.

A small run in my stocking.

A single strand of hair out of place.

Should have gone with wanton. Why didn't I go with wanton?

A tiny little imperfection I could have done without.

I hold my breath, waiting for it.

I compose my face, trying to Botox my expression so that I don't show my disappointment when he says it.

Stand by to cue the stupid little smile and stupid little laugh.

"Charity is the greatest of the Seven Heavenly Virtues," says Peter.

I laugh my stupid little laugh. "No, I don't have — wait, what?"

That's a new one.

I mean, I know charity is a virtue. I've heard my share of lame jokes about that too. More than.

But greatest heavenly virtue? How did I not know this? Why was I not informed? Why has no man told me this before, and with such sincerity?

Peter looks soulfully into my eyes. "Some philosophers call charity the ultimate perfection of the human spirit," he says.

"Well," I say demurely. "I try."

"Caritas," he says.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Latin." He flashes a wry smile that shows off his perfectly etched dimples. "Caritas. The highest form of human love."

Latin?

Of course he knows Latin. Who doesn't know Latin?

Me for one. I never took Latin. I was lucky to pass English.

But wherever Peter studied — I imagine some exclusive prep school — I bet Latin was mandatory. He has the poise and polish of someone who attended a school where you have to learn Latin.

I only hope he's not going spout more. A little Latin goes a long way so far as I'm concerned.

Never mind that. Is he talking about love?

And me? In the same breath?

I'm not sure what he's trying to say.

But I like the sound of it.

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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