She was a manipulator, a trickster (in the most envious way), the type of woman who had you moving one way, when you meant to move the opposite; and think one way, when you really meant another. And she often left you with your chest tight, anxious and thrilled and fearful that you shuffled your feet to the end of a giant tree branch that was no longer so thick and sturdy, and in the back of your mind (or, really, the front) you wonder, not if, but when a gust of wind would blow you off-balance and bring the whole damn thing to the ground.
But that's what you signed up for when she asked you, out of the blue, at a crowded street fair, "Have you seen Jesus in the sun?" and you looked at her quizzically, yet your brain scrambled ferverishly for an answer that would be brilliant, or sardonic, or clever, or in any way be equal to whatever she was testing you for, so that she would not think you were a blithering idiot and move on to some other damn lucky guy at the next table of tchotckes, and you'd spend the rest of your days thinking of what might have been had you come up with the right answer at that fleeting moment.
But you did. And, apparently, it was just right enough.