The Temple

She walked in with romantic desperation, for she was a lost soul. She expected candles, morphed from centuries of drippings down the sides, to line an equally ancient rug—perhaps hand-woven by the monks themselves. The warm light would give way to dozens of silent, meditating monks. And then the great golden Buddha would be there to receive her.

But it was not so cathartic.

The temple was bare and stone and that was all. But it was old. And there was man. He was not rosy and gold like the deity she imagined. But he was old.

“Oof,” he said.