HOLY JESUS, THERE'S A NUN IN IKEA — SARA HILLS
/At first I think she’s a mannequin perched on an Ektorp sofa; some hipster’s idea of a humorous gag in the showroom. But then she moves. Her dark veil swishes like the flash of a crow’s wing as she turns to caress a shaggy silver pillow.
Matty’s waiting in the car, and I’m supposed to be quick—in and out—to pick up a replacement picture frame after our wedding portrait crashed off the wall. But I can’t take my eyes off this nun.
She stands, smooths out her tunic and strides past me, past the paper measuring strips and doll-sized pencils, past the cage of yellow shopping bags, and heads straight for the display of throws. She strokes each one, knit in vibrant golds and grays, and presses them against her cheek like one would a kitten.
She sees me staring and smiles. I turn away and pretend to examine an armchair, one of those wide ones big enough for two, the kind Matty says are wholly impractical. He’d have found the frame and made it to self-checkout by now, but I like to linger. Imagine what if. Stand in each decorator room and pretend to be living some alternate version of my life—a young twenty-something with a new apartment; a scientist who collects jazz records; single and on a first date, wondering if I’m brave enough to smoke a little weed if he asks, if he’ll tip me over the edge of the armchair or if he’ll go slow.
I should hurry, get in and out like Matty said. But the nun’s on the move, and I snake after her; I can’t help myself. Her tunic swings with each graceful step, as if with every movement she gives more of herself to God. And she’s beautiful, even with her hair hidden under the wimple—such a sad, salty word—she’s ageless. I bet she’s shopping for refugee families or abused women; people in need.
The nun doesn’t dip through the sneaky short-cuts, not like Matty does when he comes with me. Straight to the end, so they can’t sucker you into buying more crap you don’t need, he says. But how do you know if you need it or not if you don’t even lay eyes on it? For example, the picture frame shelf? If we had one of those, our wedding portrait wouldn’t have crashed off the wall. Maybe stemmed glassware would make us more refined and floral sheets would encourage something to grow.
The nun stops at a decorator bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed and bounces twice. She lays herself down atop of the covers. The bottom of her black shoes are worn thin. How tired she must be, taking such careful steps, acceding to God’s wants and whims. Serving only Him and not herself.
I know I should hurry, that Matty is waiting, but the beds are so inviting and so soft.
Sara Hills writes from Warwickshire, UK. Her short fiction has been featured in several anthologies and journals, including Barren Magazine, Reflex Fiction, TSS, and Flash Flood Journal. Her work has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Award and the Bridport Prize, longlisted for the Fish Flash Fiction Prize, and in 2020, she won the UK National Flash Fiction Day micro competition. She tweets from @sarahillswrites.
