It’s a church, right? So a good place.
Every Sunday I hunch in the front pew, staring up at his face.
He knows who I am.
I know what he is.
Every now and then I’ll take confession, which is to say I enter the confessional and say nothing while he breathes heavily, his sour sweat permeating the grille.
One day I will speak. I’ll talk about my brother; his shame, the drugs… the needles… the squat.
And this man knows I will.
So he sweats and waits.
Waits for exposure.
It’s a good place this church. Right?
I was pleased that the muse, absent for a few weeks, decided to play a fleeting visit this week. Thanks to Rochelle for her leadership of our happy band of international writers at Friday Fictioneers. Click on the frog to read others similarly fortunate.