Little Prayers

Thanks to my editor Mr. Tandy for sending this to me. He saved me an enormous amount of time. LP first appeared in Smile Hon and I love it so.

A bit under the weather (under the gun) today. Hope you are warm and save and loved.

XOXO

Sommer

p.s. if there is shoddy formatting it is mine. blogger didnt want to submit!

LITTLE PRAYERS
Sommer Marsden


“Do you think that you can be saved by sin, Father?”

He regards me with a look that is half-amused, half-horrified. Father O’Reilly has blue Irish eyes and a drinker’s nose.

“I think you probably know what my answer will be, Cass.”

I nod, straighten my skirt, wish it was longer. “So, that’s a no?”

He laughs awkwardly. The kind of laugh you hear in the waiting room of the psych ward. “Does this have to do with your…friend?”

Father clears his throat, waits. Runs his stubby fingers along the perfect pleats in his black pants and tries hard not to stare at my boots. Black boots. Fuck-me boots. Why had I worn these?

“My obsession?” I correct, giving my own unstable laugh.

“Cass--”

“Father, let’s call it what it is. An obsession. An affair that hasn’t hit the physical stage yet but still…saved by sin. I think it’s possible. I feel more alive, more like a woman than I have in years. I feel connected, Father. Blissfully and morbidly connected. To him, to the me I thought was gone…to life.”

“Cass, you haven’t done anything--”

I shake my head as he trails off. I close my eyes and see it. Smell it. Feel it. The fantasy that lives in my head. That plays only God knows how many times a day. The one that I have no doubt will one day become a reality. Technically, I guess that makes it precognition. I can vividly see the profile of his face, the color of his eyes. His hands, large and powerful. How they would grip me, pull at me, anchor me. Where my mouth would be, how the smell of him would fill my sinuses. The silky, forbidden slide of his tongue. The rasping sound of dark stubble raking my inner thigh.

It is as clear and vibrant as a series of Polaroid pictures all lined up in a colorful row.

“I say little prayers,” I whisper. “Little SOS messages to God. Just let me have this and not lose--”

“Your marriage?” he interjects. His voice has slipped just a tiny bit into the realm of accusation.

I hold up my hand and see that it is shaking. The diamond stacked above my wedding band winks at me lasciviously. Remember me? I’m a commitment…or have you forgotten?

I force myself to spit out the words. To purge my soul. “Just let me have this and not lose myself. Not hurt anyone. Just this one little thing. Just for me. Let me have it. Amen.” I finish and I hear the hitch in my voice. Feel my throat closing with a mixture of longing, terror and shame at what I have become.

“He’s not worth it, this man. He’s not worth the life you have built.” Father is saying all the right things. The things they have trained him to say. “Your vows before God. The words you chose to say that would bind you in marriage until death.”

Oh, but he is worth it…I blink at the sinister broadcast that flits and flickers through my thoughts. Bound. Until death. Yes, that is what it feels like.

“He doesn’t know you,” Father O’Reilly rushes forward.

Oh, but he does. I’ve told him all. Every deep dark secret. Every want and twisted desire. Things that even you don’t know, Father. Things my husband doesn’t know. Things that maybe God himself doesn’t know…

“There isn’t a bond. A true bond between the two of you, Cass. That’s all I’m saying.” Father keeps his voice soft, probably to soothe me.

What about the bond that tells me I’d give anything to feel him slide into me? Anything to share my body and soul with him. To have him move against me. Just for an hour, a minute, a second. That bond that makes me feel like he’s inside my head, crawling under my skin, drowning me with his complete understanding of who I am.

I frown and then quickly find a smile. I blink back my tears and swallow hard. I put on my game face. My contrite face. “You’re right, of course,” I reassure him.

There’s that look of relief again. This is week six of the same conversation. Father, save me from what I have become. Stop me before I disappear, shatter, melt.

“What should I do?” I whisper. I can almost see my words eat up the oxygen in the room. They are that powerful, that desperate.

“Pray,” he says, touching my arm gently. I don’t see the word “whore” on his face but I feel it inside of me. A little shift of pain and loss around my sternum.

“How many?”

“Let’s say, twenty Our Fathers and forty Hail Marys.”

I nod, wipe my eyes and tug on my fucking skirt again. When I came in, I felt fashionable. Now, under his gaze, I feel slutty. It’s a lot to say, but I’ll take it. Anything to feel some tiny sense of absolution.

He waves his hands over me as if it is magic and blesses me. “Thank you, Father,” I say because it is expected of me.

“You’ll be just fine, Cass.”

I gather my coat and pull it on. I’ll need it against the January sleet and wind. The brutal gray day that waits for me is a reflection of my confusion. Stark and beautiful at the same time. Or so it seems. It could just be I’m seeking any kind of sense that I can find.

I step out of the church, the city rushing in around me to fill my ears, my eyes, my head. I walk out to find my car, boots sliding through the mess of melting ice, trash in the gutters. Not much charm in Charm City today. And I start. “Our Father…” The cold wind gulps at my words and swallows them whole.

I am the only one who knows that way down in the most secret, sacred part of me, my prayer remains the same.

Just let me have this and not lose myself. Not hurt anyone. Just this one little thing. Just for me. Let me have it.

Amen.