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Istruggle to describe my read on this man who, as she called it, has been my obsession for years now.
Me: It wasn’t just feeling. His service lacked faith
Diana: Like, he was robotic?
Me: Yes.
Diana: Maybe that’s because of what he went through? I know his time in Algeria was a while back but that kind of thing doesn’t heal overnight, does it?
Me: You know too much about him
Diana: *rolls eyes* Because you talk about him all the time
Me: *sniffs*
Me: He could have sought clerical dispensation if he wanted to leave. He’s certainly not settled in a parish for long
Diana: Do I want to know how you learned that?
Me: No.
My cheeks flush.
Diana: A part of me has known for a while that you’ve stalked him.
Me: I’m not a stalker
Diana: Sounds like it to me
Me: I mean him no harm
Diana: I’m sure you don’t
Diana: How are the wings?
Me: They’re okay.
A soft laugh from the booth whispers through me, making me shiver as my attention leaves my conversation with Diana. It’s so wrong while under God’s roof, but my nipples peak, and I close my eyes, relishing the husky sound.
I know it isn’t something he does often.
Of the many lines on his face, laughter didn’t cause one of them.
Strain, pain, fear, and rage did; he exudes each emotion. They flood out of his pores, making me wish I had the right to soothe him.
But I don’t.
Yet.
The boy who shuffled in after his father pushed him toward the booth seems to make Savio smile. I watched their interactions earlier and noticed he refrained from grinning.
Saw that he purposely ignored me as he crossed over to the confessional.
He just strode in like I wasn’t there.
It hurt.
A lot.