Sir, I have no husband

Communion was served this Sunday. At the South Bend Christian Reformed Church, the congregation goes to the front to receive the bread and the cup from the elders -- new to my experience, and rather delightful. I had read the line-up instructions printed on the bulletin, where everyone was supposed to exit their pews to the right and return from the left. However, the section of the church in which I was sitting was rather long, so that the line was backed up (I have noticed that churches and Grovers can't maneuver traffic well) while the section next over was smaller and the line therefore shorter. Some decisive people in the rows ahead of me had elected to exit their pews to the left and enter the shorter line.

I was at the very end of left side of the last row, having come in late, and found myself hoping to God that I wouldn't have to make the decision. So naturally I peeked around at the person on the other end to see if they seemed the decisive, take-charge sort. Oh, good, it was a man. A young man. A rather attractive young man. (Thoughts of communion scattered a bit here.) A rather attractive young man who hesitantly caught my eye and refused to make a decision. Damn.

The woman next to me eventually whispered that I should lead the row to the left into the shorter line. So I did, feeling awkward and nervous -- this was only my third time in this church -- and all went smoothly. After the service I noticed this attractive indecisive young man and tried to quiet the bells going off in my head. Did the ring-check; left hand was bare. Hoorah.

Now the embarrassing part. Of course there's an embarrassing part. Between the service and the church school hour are about twenty-five minutes for coffee, cookies, and fellowship, where everyone mills around in the sunny atrium off the kitchen. I went to wait in the coffee line, which was mercifully shorter than the communion lines, and found myself directly behind the attractive indecisive young man. (And God, he was good-looking. I keep forgetting that I can be attracted to someone right off the bat like that. Blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and just about my height. Woo-ee.) He seemed shy, but the old man behind the kitchen counter arranging cookies on plates was chatty and asked the young man questions, have you come here long, are you in school, etc., and I of course listened. I learned that he is visiting faculty in the philosophy department at Notre Dame. He poured his coffee and turned to leave; I was smiling at him in what (I thought) was the pre-friendly, waiting-to-catch-his-eye-to-say-hello sort of way, but he didn't quite catch my eye and moved past to talk to some older people across the room. As he passed me I stepped up to the coffee and smiled at the old man, who asked in a not-so-quiet voice, "Are you two married?"

It was like being hit in the stomach with a tennis ball. I lurched at the counter and felt my face go hot and was tempted to blurt, like the woman at the well, "Sir, I have no husband." My internal filter prevented me, however, and I managed a choked-sounding "No -- no. I've never met him." Now, the old man could have spared me further embarrassment by simply shutting up. But he said, by way of explaining his assumption, "Well, you were smiling at him..." I laughed and said I was just being friendly. I ducked to the side to doctor up my coffee. God have mercy.

Now how on earth was I smiling at him? I tortured myself over this for the rest of the day. Was I leering? Looking dreamy and wistful? Stupid? Creepy?

Well, I told myself, if he's visiting someone in the philosophy department, I'll probably never see him again, so there's nothing to worry about. Only to learn, when I laughed about it last night with Marianne over beer, that "visiting faculty" means you ARE faculty, and you're here for at least a year. It's a Notre Dame title. This indecisive attractive young man has a PhD. In philosophy.

Hot damn.

If he even comes back. If he ever talks to the weird young woman staring at him with some unidentifiably creepy stalker expression whom people think he's married to.

Well...I hope he's in church on Sunday. Even though I'll be too embarrassed to look at him. To his face, anyway.