How to Rope an Englishman: Part Six

Need to catch up?  Read:

Part Un: Derek*

Part Deux: Getting It

Part Trois: Mrs. Adventure

Part Quatre: Back-Row Baptists

Part Cinq: Fat Stanley

Part Six: A Voice, but not a voice

The night Simon gave me his CD, Sara and I went to the pub and hung out with him and his housemates.  He bought me a drink and made me laugh, and I told him I really, really liked his music.

A few days later, we were with some friends a few blocks from my house, when I gathered my things up and said, “It’s getting late…I think I’ll head home.”

It was dark, but I was 21 and a bit braver/stupider than I am now.

“I’ll walk you,” Simon said.

“Oh…right…okay.  Cool.”

We put our coats on and made our way down the dark promenade, past the beach, round the corner, and down my road – which was really just an alleyway.  We talked the whole way, and when we got to my door, I asked Simon if he wanted to come in for a few minutes.

“…for a glass of water?”

“Yes, please.”

I got us both a glass, and we sat across from one another in my living room, taking gulps and swallowing loudly.

He asked me some questions about North Carolina, and laughed when I told him about the high school I went to where boys rode tractors to school and thousands of people showed up at Friday night football games.

“Sounds like a film,” he said.

“Hmm, maybe,” I answered.  “Except less glamorous, and more boring.”

We were quiet for a moment, and he took a long sip of water.

“You know,” he finally said.  “It’s weird how I don’t know a lot about your past, and you don’t know a lot about mine.  But I feel kind of…connected to you.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, looking nervously into my glass.

“Anyway,” he took a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

He stood up and handed me his glass.

“Thanks for the drink.  I should go home.  See you tomorrow at uni?”

“Yeah, definitely.  That’ll be good.”

I walked him to the door and leaned against the frame while he stepped out into the crisp October air.  I could see his breath in the alleyway against the light from a lamppost across the street.

“Thanks again, Faith.  See you later.”

“Alright, yeah.  See you.”

I watched him walk down the alley, back to where we had come from.  His black hair was shimmering with mist, and he was wearing the big camel-colored toggle coat he always wore then (and for two winters after).  He turned around one last time to flash another smile at me, and I smiled back.

It was then that I heard it.  A voice, but not a voice.  Maybe clearer than a voice.

“This is the one I have for you.”

Clear as day.

And I knew.

Just like that.

He turned the corner and disappeared into the night, and I closed the door and ran upstairs to my room, where I dropped to my knees and told God I heard.

Where I asked if it was true.

Where He stamped it onto my heart – a deep imprint for me to come back to over the coming days, weeks, months, while I waited for the man I was falling in love with to realize he loved me too.


Part Sept: Hurry Up and Wait

Author: Faith

Faith Dwight is a photographer and a writer. She is a Southern American girl living just north of London with her British husband, Simon and their two halfling sons.

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