The Bodyguard ("Mystique" story #88)

MYSTIQUE
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is not letting herself think about the ponies. She is in a hat shop. Not a proper place for pony-thought, even if she were to indulge in it. And she isn’t. And she’s not looking at any red hats either. That would be as bad—or perhaps worse—than letting ponies onto her field of thought.
There are a couple black hats that meet her fancy. Very proper. Very elegant. Nothing sordid about them. Not a drop. One even has a bit of a veil. Something to peek through and create some mystique. She likes the idea of mystique and doesn’t care what the hell Jesus has to say about the notion. He is still in his well-deserved purgatory of tinfoil on the two nails in her kitchen wall and is not likely to be getting out any time soon if He doesn’t change his tone, shape up, and fly right! Snickering is not to be tolerated. Not from anybody, especially not someone who is your Eternal Redeemer. Obviously she can’t do anything about her porch-monkey neighbors, but Jesus is a different matter. His smirking can be dealt with.

The ponies were not her fault and you’d expect a guy like Jesus would figure that out. But did He? No. He makes it into this big production and will not let her off the hook even when she promised to take Him with her to mass next Sunday. Such recalcitrance obviously upset her. But all morning long it’s been growing worse, which is why she’s now here at the hat shop—so she can calm down and figure out what to tell her yoga instructor when she calls him up soon as she goes to back to work. She knows the truth that she lost their honeymoon money on the ponies is not going to be good for any of his chakras, especially if her betrothed learns she’d been at the ponies with the secret policeman and so near that case of dreadfully moist Philippino cigars.

In truth, her yoga instructor would simply not believe it. He would think it was an elaborate joke and praise her for it, then go sprawling into yet another bouquet of Hindu apologies about his brother and the engagement ring catastrophe, which was so completely not anything she wanted to hear. Sometimes she didn’t know who was worse—Jesus or her future groom. But she had to admit that she couldn’t imagine the yoga instructor would last long in her tinfoil purgatory. He didn’t have near the stamina Jesus did. Nor as big a set of biceps. That’s one thing she did openly tell Her Savior, He looked pretty good without his shirt on.