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Cathedrals

Joe Chiudina

    Bus ride home.
    I take the seat in the back across from Cathedral.
    When he isn’t drinking up a tornado, my uncle christens me a chemically imbalanced Romeo who can’t tell the difference between a suicide note and a love letter. All that my uncle thinks about is me with a baby carriage.
    I don’t fantasize about going to bed with Mona Lisa but she’s still a masterpiece. Heck, I don’t know what’s going on behind Mona’s smile. I don’t even know if she likes me. That doesn’t make her any less of a treasure in my eyes.
    I look at Cathedral and I’m lovesick. Cupid doesn’t have to shoot me with an arrow. She needs to take my temperature. I watch Cathedral look out at the day. I’m jealous of her reflection.
    My heart races so fast that it’s in danger of getting a speeding ticket. My soul searches the want ads for a mate with some soul.
    I want to tap her on the shoulder as if to test the gates of heaven to see if they’re locked. I fumble with the safety switch on my heart.
    Bus ride to school.
    I share a seat with Cathedral. I don’t even know if she’s catholic or an atheist or if she’s wiccan.
    I could impress her. Tell her that the book of revelation revs up my religious views. That the commandments are nothing more than tic-tac’s for an old generation. Or that Wiccan gives me a dizzy-spell.
    My heart races so fast it practically flatlines and my soul does the limbo. My arm aches from not being able to put it around her.
    I squint at her on the off-chance that she isn’t as dazzling as the last time I saw her. An excuse not to fall in love with her. An excuse not to have my heart burned. I rise above being a slave to a masterpiece.
    No chance. She’s got me in her trapper-keeper.
    I play Scrabble. The Russian roulette edition. “Your name’s Cathedral right? Your name’s Cathedral right? Your name’s Cathedral right?”
    She shouts “Yes!” and I jump and cringe in the same breath. I tell myself: watch yourself or you’ll give fate a rope-burn.
    Her cell rings. She answers it.
    “Hello? Yes. What did he say? You’re kidding? You’re not kidding. Oh my God! He does? Are you sure? Okay. Bye.”
    Cathedral hangs up and turns to me and attacks me with a kiss and nearly knocks out my loose tooth.
    This is a custom that I’ve always felt was a poor gesture of love. It looks good on the silver screen but until Cupid claims the director’s chair, smooches sound like balloons rubbing against balloons. Excuse me but can you pass the gravy mashed potatoes and meatloaf? With your tongue?
    Gag me with a French kiss.
    But at this moment we’re two lips passing in the dark. And I may be a hypocrite, but I’d give my best friend a black eye to have Cathedral kiss me again.
    Bus ride home.
    I don’t want to give my best friend a black eye. I take the stones from my caved-in kiss and bury him alive. He turns the holy grail into a sippy cup. The New testament into the new testes. Robs my soul of its religion.
    My best friend sits next to Cathedral. They couldn’t be closer if they were engaged. They hold hands.
    I touch a rose and get poison ivy. My heart beats itself up.
    I never look at another cathedral again. Not even out of the corner of my heart. I give her the cold shoulder and pray that she gets frost-bite. I don’t care if I live without love. I give up Catholicism. I hang Pontius Pilate on the cross to spite God. I give up Atheism. I dig mother earth a grave.
    My uncle was right.
    I can’t tell the difference between a suicide note and a love letter. Cupid isn’t a teacher. She drives a hearse and I’m the deceased in the back.
    Cathedral gets off the bus. But before she does she drops a folded piece of paper on my seat.
    I reach to pick it up. Maybe the frame is prettier than the picture. Maybe I can fall in love with a consolation prize. That is if I don’t choke on my pride and the church I’ve built around my Cathedral.
    I don’t open it up. I unfold it. I don’t read it. I meditate on it I read it ten times. Before I can catch up to it. I begin each line with a Possibility and end each line with a sweet Nothing.

    ‘I didn’t kiss you because I like you. I kissed you because I was happy. My girlfriend, Sally had just called. Sally surprised me with the news that Paul Fig wanted to ask me out.
    I’m sorry.
    I’m not going to end this letter with ‘I still want to be friends.’ Instead. ‘Maybe we’ll pass each other in the hall sometime’.

    Love Cathedral.

    PS

    I told my sister that you’re a great kisser and she wants to ask you to the homecoming dance’.

    I drape a leather jacket over my heart. Call the shots. Swagger with a snicker. Keep the prize in sight. Ignore the prize. Let the prize win me. Let Cathedral’s sister ask me to the homecoming dance.
    I play hard-to-get with a heart-on.
    Maybe the book of love is a bible. Or maybe its jokes for John the Baptist. Whatever the case, next time I’ll keep my heart’s tongue in check before I allow another cathedral to impale me.

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