Sarai sat on the cushioned seats of the church pew hunched over in a rather meek looking position. Upon first glance one might assume that she is praying, and maybe she was for surely she was looking for help, and they say God hears all thoughts. So maybe she is praying; Though not consciously.
She sits there arms out, resting palms facing the ceiling of the sanctuary with her dark hair partially eclipsing her face. Her hair was thick and she had large eyes, and it made her look like a character from a Japanese cartoon. This, she thought, made it hard for people to take her seriously, which is why she tries to stand up as straight as possible at all times, though she often fails at doing so because of how tired she is, and stays, most of the time. Making her posture somewhat varying; Rapidly changing from very erect to bent almost double from one moment to the next, if you forgive the slight exaggeration.
An older man, probably a deacon of the church, or even the pastor (she assumed from the faint smile his face seemed to retain at all times during the following conversation) came up and gently put his hand on her shoulder, startling her, for her brassy eyes were closed. “I’m sorry to wake you.” said the godly man, even though they knew she wasn’t asleep, “Oh, its fine.” She replied quietly, all but incoherently. “I was just wondering if you needed anything, possibly someone to pray with?” Looking at the man now more closely she realized he wasn’t quite as old as she thought he was. “Oh,” she said with a slight laugh to her palms which were now looking up at her from her lap. “No thanks, I was just resting for a bit.” She said as she rose to start leaving. “Are you sure?” the man said, “You look weary.” She stopped looking quizzically at him, “Weary? You must read the bible quite often.” Her eyes laughed to neither her palms nor the man’s eyes. “But no.” she said. “Being tired is hardly something to pray about anyways, all I’d have to do is go to sleep.” her eyes laughing again to no-one in particular. “No” the man said, “weary I think, means something entirely different than tired. Weary is more of a..” He falters; looking at his palms for reassurance. “.. an emotional sort of tired.. If that makes sense.” She turns to him now with a small smile “Yes, it does make sense.” They hold a gaze for a few moments, his cold eyes making hers look all the more conflagrant.
It would make a rather beautiful picture, these two sets of contrasting eyes looking into one another’s, and their exiguous and forethoughtful smiles, but she is now in the street, in the crisp pink morning air of the moon-set, and he, now warming the same seat in which her body heat still lingers, is saying a prayer for the girl with the weary eyes of fire.