God was drinking with me and I asked him to tell me a story. He grinned like grandpas do when they’re making stuff up. Well God had already made everything up, I mean made everything, but with his mind…So ya, made it up I guess.
He tapped his glass on the bar. When the gentleman behind the bar looked his way, God gestured for two. I told him I was still working on mine, but he said it would be a long story and too abstract for the sober mind.
I took his word for it cause he’s God so why not. He asked me a question in such a way that it was ok to think about it for a while.
He asked me, “Do you know why I gave you a stutter?”
My first instinct was rage, why would he give me an affliction and then admit to it like he had done me a favor? My first thought was self-righteous, relishing in my suffering like we all do. Sweeping the walkway with woe is me so my martyrs robe didn’t get dirty.
I thought, so I could be empathetic and humble. I forgot he could read my mind and he looked at me like grandmas do when you say a curse word. And just like grandmas do he shook his head and grinned, knowing my ignorance was a byproduct of my youth.
He didn’t speak though, he wanted me to think about it. I finished my drink before sliding it down the mahogany bar with a flick of the wrist. Then pulled the one waiting toward me by the base with two fingers. I thought about it but had no conclusions, so I admitted my ignorance.
“I don’t know, I never thought about it.”
He was stirring his drink and with his eyes turned my attention to the dance floor where a woman was dancing. She was quite attractive and moved with a seductive vibe.
He asked, “What’s do you find attractive about her?”
I replied, “She dances like she’s making love.”
“Why is that attractive to you?” he asked.
Breaking my gaze, I said, “I was in love with a woman who danced like that and I lost her.”
“Why did you lose her?”
“I took her for granted…”
“You only find value in what you don’t have.” He said softly with his lips on the glass.
I agreed in my mind and he graciously acknowledged my faults without belittling me.
The condensation of the glass in my hand created a droplet of water which fell in perfect secession to the one from my eye. The droplet rolled down my thumb, the tear rolled over my lip as I stirred the ice along with my thoughts and asked.
“What does that have to do with my stutter?”
He stood, sliding his stool in, his coat on and a pen toward me and asked
“What does your heart want to do right now?
“Write about a woman making love to music.” I replied.
“You tend not to take words for granted.”
By: Shane Chapa