Not a repentance story

– I feel like in your grandmother’s kitchen, she told him looking at the Virgin.

– Except that you won’t get cake for saying the prayer, he replied sarcastically.

– What if I’d get on my knees?

– Now that’s another kind of prayer, he said vaguely interested, mocking the last word with his rhotacism.

Every time he punished a meaningful word for containing an “r”, it was her favorite entertainment.

– Follow me, I’ll make you a believer, she said. Her cheeks were flushed by forbidden thoughts as she disappeared after a pew the very moment that the old Italian lady near them changed her focus to the insides of her purse.

He did not expect this and his blood rush was betrayed by one too many signals starting with the dumb look on his face.

– Just… come, will you?, she whispered with a sensual echo, that only he could hear among the marble angels.

And he did.

…Twelve years of happiness, a nasty divorce (and probably the gates of hell) were ahead them.

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