Save your scissors, dearheart.

He grabbed my wrist as I was trying to walk away.

For some reason, none of them want me to leave, on both sides of the window.

The news spread quickly, like Mary Mallon’s typhoid fever. A week of explanations, of lack thereof, of abused promises that’ll go nowhere but due to the simplicity of social niceties.

One co-worker took it harder than the rest. Probably because he lives with Jesus in his heart and has not yet been perplexed by the sway of loss, no matter how much he has studied and read on the subject.

As I left work, said goodbye, he grabbed my wrist as I tried to leave.

He looked as if he wanted to say something meaningful, perhaps even heartfelt, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. I stopped him before he even started and put my free hand on top of his for a moment, then placed it on his heart. I looked at him, and laughed at the idea of a future priest and an aethist becoming such good friends.

I removed my hand from his heart, put my index finger to my lips and simply said, “Shh.”