Epic Magazine

One summer, when I was unemployed and living at my parents’ house, I had the pleasure of answering the door to a pair of hot, teenage Jehovah’s Witnesses about once a week.

I couldn’t tell if they were into me or not, but I always tried to make them laugh, or at least smile. Break that door-to-door mask.

Hoping to spark up their weekly visits, I read a few of the watchtowers they gave me, but these were largely incoherent, and nobody brought them up next visit anyway. It was as though every knock on the door was the first, we built no rapport.

Trying a new tack, I acted more and more familiar as the summer days dilated. They remained pleasantly aloof, but I thought I could sense something stirring under their Sunday best. Whether or not this egg would eventually crack from the pressure within is lost to the fates, because I inadvertently scared them away.

One midafternoon, about ten minutes after I woke up, I answered what I believed to be my neighbour’s knock. Topless, unkempt, and holding a plate of fajita fixins, I made what I could of a messy situation by leaning leisurely against the door frame and inviting them in.

Suffice it to say, my comely smile wasn’t up to the task.