The First Thing They Talk About
Fiction
As John pulled into his usual parking space at St. Peter’s Catholic Church, his heart plummeted. The lot was empty – similar to the passenger’s seat.
“Christ almighty,” he said before coughing into his sleeve. He had probably long forgotten what would happen to his soul if he kept saying the Lord’s name in vain. Maybe he didn’t care anymore. Either way, it had become a new habit for the old man.
John killed the engine and reached for his cane in the backseat. Slowly, laboriously, he ambled toward the front door to see what the hell was going on.
But when he got there, it was all for nothing. The door was locked.
“Goddammit,” John muttered. No note, no notice: nothing. The whole world was shutting down.
He adjusted the cap on his head and turned around.
On his way back to the car, he noticed the sign out front: No in-person mass this weekend. Attend church online!
“And how do you suppose I do that, Bella?”
When he returned home later that morning, he hung up his jacket and set his keys down on the rickety table near the front door. A black and white photograph rested on the same table: John on his wedding day. The sturdy, metallic frame read: John and Isabella – June the first, 1967 – Alexandria Bay, New York.
John touched his wife’s face with his pinky before walking past. At this point, the action had surpassed ritualistic: it was automatic. Fingerprints coated glass.
He went straight into the den and sat at his wife’s old computer. She used to hammer away on the keyboard, staying up all hours of the night while he was asleep. For whatever reason, retirement turned her into a mystery novelist – and a pretty good one, at that. She had a knack for crafting characters and providing twists when he’d least expect them.
John was the earlier riser of the two. Most mornings before he fetched the paper or plucked a book from their collection, he sat at the computer and read her creations. It always amazed him that his Bella could weave such intricate, complex tales. The stories were a clear window into her mind’s eye, and what a beautiful place it was.
When she woke, the two discussed her stories over coffee. And that’s how their days went.
In short, John had loved sharing this life with her. Now, he was searching, waiting, longing – but for what, he wasn’t certain.
As the machine came to life, John ran his fingers along the dusty keys. A, F, and T were so loose that they popped out. Bella’s left hand must have been something fierce.
“Aft,” John said, setting the keys aside. “What does aft mean anyway, dear?” He rearranged the letters to F A T and grinned before jamming them back in place. “Oh, so that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”
As little icons appeared on the home screen, John navigated to the Internet. In the search bar, he typed St. Peter’s online church and then pressed Enter.
After clicking around for a few minutes, he closed the window in defeat. He didn’t know what he was doing or how to navigate this limitless space. The entire universe was working against him at this point.
Before he turned the computer off, a thought struck him. He pulled up his wife’s word processor and created a new document.
“Hmm.”
And then he started to write a story for her. It was about this crazy world he lived in – she’d never believe it. Not for a second.
When he saw her again someday, it could be the first thing they talk about.
I originally wrote “The First Thing They Talk About” in 2020 shortly after the pandemic started. I tweaked it and ironed it out to get it to its current condition.
Take care, and thanks so much for reading. I hope you have a great weekend!
This is a sweet story. I loved it!
I very much enjoyed this delightfully sweet story.