With that, she angrily chucked her rosary back into her bag and then whirled to face him. As her impossibly dark hair swirled about her head, he was overwhelmed with the scent of hyacinth. It was nice.

“Look,” she hissed, “I have come here for peace and quiet, and a chance to be alone with God. I don’t need you or any other slimy creep from off the street coming in here and ruining my meditation with stupid questions and stories about historical Portuguese whores!” Her eyes burned with something more desperate than hate.

“Alright, fine!” he surrendered. “I’m an ass, you’re not a nun. I get it.”

Despite the bizarre and random exchange, both remained in their seats. He saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes, and knew he ought to be more sensitive. She stared at the floor, rocking back and forth in her chair. The awkward pause hung just over their heads, but an even more ominous yet vague sense of predetermined fate loomed just over that.

He cleared his throat. “Did you ever want to be a nun?”