WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE

She sat on the wooden bench in front of the church, praying.  She heard music from inside the sanctuary--modern Christian rock with electric guitars--but her eyes were closed, so she didn’t hear him approaching.
“You okay?” His voice was warm and thick like honey or molasses.
“Fine,” she said.  Her eyes were open now, but the unexpected intensity of the sun made them burn.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.  He wore slacks, a sport coat, and a tie as if he had just come from office work.  “Wanted to make sure you were okay.  Thought you might be crying.”
“That was kind of you.” Her voice sounded peaceful and ethereal to her; it came out better than she expected.  She fingered a gold earring in a flash of nervous that quickly passed.
“I wasn’t crying. I was praying.”

“Well,” he said, smiling.  “I’ve cried when I’ve prayed before, so I thought I’d check.”
“What have you cried about?”
“Oh, ancient history,” he said, chuckling, and looked down.  “Water under the bridge.”
“Did it help?”
“What?”
“The praying.”
He fingered his tie, cleared his throat.  Late afternoon crept in, and the shadows on the concrete elongated in front of them.  As a result, the sun was evening out, and was not not so intense.

“Not sure.  But it’s better now." He shrugged.  "That might be God.”
“Might be you, too,” she said, moving over, making room.
“Might be,” he said, sitting down. DFP