FROM PARIS III

The patron saint of anxious avoidance.

Last week, enjoying lunch in my favorite bustling cafe, my friend and I happened upon a conversation with the pair seated beside us. We’d swiftly run the gamut of conversation across all of our industries, with them being involved in fashion, my friend being an actress, and myself, a writer. The man seemed to have a steady stream of parables and life lessons on hand—the woman with him, his assistant of sorts seemed to challenge his ideas on many things, though their rapport was well-worn and comfortable despite their differences.

When my friend excused herself for the restroom, leaving a slight lull in the conversation, the man asked for my name. I told him, and he smiled broadly as I watched the pages within his mind turn to another applicable tale.

“Ahh, are you familiar with Santa Lucia?” He asked, seeming surprised when I told him I knew of her from years of Waldorf schooling but wasn’t expressly familiar with her story.

“Santa Lucia committed herself to God, but was pursued by a suitor who admired her most for her beautiful eyes—like yours.” He indicated towards my face and I smiled, nodding awkwardly in a gesture I intended to be gratitude.

“Her admirer was persistent, but she was dedicated to her mission, so she plucked out her eyes and gave them to him. That way, she could give him what he wanted and still devote her body to God.”

His assistant gave me a heavy-lidded look, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “Sorry about him” but I wasn’t disturbed by it in the least—any likening to a biblical character has always made me feel superior.

“Well, if I ever change my name, I’ll consider Lucia then.”

He laughed in answer and affirmed that I should, but remarked that my own name was beautiful as well. When my friend returned, the conversation crackled and popped with a few more sparks before dying out (as is the unspoken custom in close quarters, especially when food is present). We paid our bill, and exchanged information with our new friends, thanking them for the company as they urged us to give them a ring the next time we found ourselves in London.

Out on the street, I recounted the story of Santa Lucia to my friend.

“I can’t tell if she gave away her eyes to get the suitor off her scent or if they were like, a gift,” I said as we walked.

“Either way, I think I can relate.”

For love, I would gladly give my eyes—but sometimes, when I’m feeling close to God and cannot bear the thought of someone’s hands on my skin, I’d give my eyes to be left alone too.