Hard, to the side of your head.

I was entranced by a necklace she wore. It appeared to be tiny beautiful stones, threaded through a silver chain. Each stone had a letter. She noticed, was delighted, said,

“It reads, Medugorje.”

I asked,

“You’ve been?”

She shook her head at such an idea, said,

“No, my sister went, and, you know, she said, ‘The sun danced in the sky.’”

Like all nuns, she had that flawless skin. Why the cosmetic companies aren’t researching them is a mystery. Her eyes were clear blue, lit with a lovely hint of devilment. She asked,

“What do you think of that?”

I had no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

She pulled out a batch of cards, asked,

“Your name, please, for the draw?”

“It’s Jack but honest to God, no need to put me on the tickets.”

She seemed surprised so I tried,

“I’ve never been lucky.”

I was about to leave when she took the piece from round her neck and slipped it over my head, I began,

“I can’t…”

She said,

“Better be blessed than lucky.”

That moved me so.

Go figure.

My last encounter with a nun had resulted in murder. Outside, the sky was darkening and the deadly ice they were predicting seemed to hang, waiting. A guy was selling DVDs outside, I guess he figured even nuns watched movies.

Newly blessed, I bought:

Orphan,

Traitor,

Passengers,

District 9, and I swear to God

Sam Raimi's

Drag Me to Hell.

There is some mega-metaphysical irony in all the above but I’m fucked if I can join the dots. As I headed off, the guy said,