🌑 MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED — ARC II: ABRAHAM THE WANDERLUST PATRIARCH
Part 2 of 3 — “The Marital Woes”
(A Sub-Movement of the Larger Series: “The Holy Fools”)
Here is the Series listed and linked so far. More is COMING!
Eiri Waters
Eiri Waters
Madness and Love Mixed: Arc II — Abraham the Wanderlust
Part 2 — The Marital Woes
The scene resolves slowly once more as we notice that the earlier light we were witnessing Star-Dust and Abraham the Patriarch conversing under has matured and given way to the first signs of a sun about to set. The café is still the same warm and cozy environment. The kids are strangely absent — this we notice. The smells are about the same, but there seem to be fewer people around, though the baristas still scramble to fill mobile orders or drive-through.
We first notice the smell of lemon from the back bar — someone must have ordered a lemon pound cake and asked for it heated up. Then it is the two silly souls still conversing from this morning: Abraham and Star-Dust, sitting in the same chairs but now having changed out of their sweats into what might pass for hippie wear circa 2025? Who are we to say.
What we are certain of — and grateful for — is the warmth of the steaming cup of coffee waiting for us when we were called to witness the madness of two fools conversing about Yeshua.
We sip loudly, allowing the aeration to permeate the slurp and infuse the essence across the palate evenly to detect the notes of auburn in the roast. Looking at them, they are both wearing jeans now — Star-Dust in vintage wide-leg AE ones, still dirty because she refuses to wash them until absolutely necessary to prolong their life — coupled with Abe sporting, and we initially have to do a double-take, because we thought we saw him in skinny jeans.
Ok… stop… just stop…
We motion to Star.
“Why is Holy Man Abe wearing skinny jeans?”
We point with exasperation entering our voice. “I mean, how can we take this seriously when he is rocking SKINNY jeans, a skin-tight muscle shirt?" —ok a little loose, but obviously Star’s — and VANS. Old-school Vans. The funny thing is the only thing that seems to be too small are the pants. "Star. Abe. Do you not have an image to maintain?” we press.
They both turn to us then, eyes strangely devoid of understanding.
“Huh?” they say in tandem.
We grab the bridge of our own nose, pushing our heavy-framed Prada glasses up to our forehead.
“I give up. I am literally just going to sit over here in the corner and record stuff.”
They resume their conversation while sipping what appears to be some craft-brew version of an almond-milk espresso. Interesting. We relax back into our own version of a pre-warmed leather chair and take notes.
Star leans forward. “Abe — how did you stay married for like near a hundred years after what you pulled with her? Not once, but twice?” she asks, a bit of madness peaking through her caffeine-fueled mania.
Abe leans forward, feet crossed, and jabs a finger at Star. “You would not believe how much crap she gave me for that. I was literally reacting at the last moment. I was attempting to save our lives, you know?” Abe looks a bit sheepish here, decidedly un-patriarch-like. It seems he’s on the defensive, or Star touched a nerve.
Star motions with open palms toward Abe. “I get it — believe me. I have botched my fair share of good things by being less than present in my mindfulness. Even you, with faith that looks like madness on a good day and complete cognitive chaos on the worst? You set the tone for us fools to walk. I’m not judging you; I nearly destroyed my own marriage by forgetting not everyone is tapping into the same frequency and not every fire can be held in every candle.
“Perhaps that is why the Father has so many types of Spirits at His command — He sends the ones most aligned with us?” Star shrugs, leaning back as if to say the thought is open to discourse.
Abe chuckles. “I knew you would get it. I just knew way back then that nothing would come of it. I may or may not have forgotten to mention it to Sarah. I may have—” Abe rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed at his folly. “—failed to mention it not once but twice.”
Abe lifts the Red Sox cap and runs his hand through now much shorter hair. Wait… did Star give the Patriarch a buzz cut? And why do they smell a little stronger than patchouli? He chuckles.
“Star, you do not want me to start spilling on you and Rachel, do you?” He jabs a finger into Star’s thigh in a good-natured tease.
We swear Star-Dust goes a shade of white we didn’t know existed outside heavenly bleach and divine laundering facilities. She literally shrinks in on herself, meek as a new born kitten chastised.
We shrug, entrusting that the next absurdity will be revealed when it is meant to be. Even as the fog begins to roll in over the vision. It starts at the concrete floor, then over and around our feet, swirling up to embrace the still-warm cup. Then up to our waiting eyes — and the last sense to go is the sound of Star begging Abraham not to let loose the secrets she has hidden beneath all that pixie dust and muscle.
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Eiri Waters
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