Story of a Sunday Morning

He was planning on sipping on the cup of dark roast while writing in his journal in a dark corner of the cafe. He forgot it was about the time people would be getting out of church. Crap! Sure enough, a small group of people from the church he recently left came into the shop. He had come to enjoy his peaceful Sunday mornings. This was probably the first Sunday he forgot about church. Serves him right! Only the unprepared get ambushed, and he was about to be ambushed royally. He could see it in their triumphant eyes.

They invited him to sit with them. Argh! Better be nice. So he did.

What unfolded was something he’ll never forget. As they were talking to him in their pitiful tones with the look of genuine concern in their eyes and the occasional sympathetic touch on the arm, he imagined himself in palliative care being visited by these strange people. He was as good as dead… invalid… and they, the vital living validators delivered condolence after condolence until he felt he was swimming in syrup. Kill me now!

In a sudden move that startled his comforters, he stood up and said he had to go. He had an appointment. (It was with himself but he didn’t tell them that.) They wouldn’t understand. If those looks could save someone from the flames of Hell they would.

He never got a word in.

They never noticed.

He left knowing he had made the right choice.

They stayed knowing they’d made theirs.