\u00c9amonn waits for me in the last pew. The scent of Marlboros clings to his black leather jacket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His green eyes plead a promise he can\u2019t make.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ll go straight to hell if I so much as kiss you,<\/em> \u00c9amonn<\/em>. Have you forgotten your seminary vows? <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Hell\u2019s not so bad,<\/em> \u00c9amonn says, pulling me into his arms. St. Pat looks down from the altar. His painted face shows no mercy. <\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, I wash the blood from my panties in the basement when everyone else is dead to the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m three months gone. We agree to meet at our special place. \u00c9amonn\u2019s jacket is in the last pew. My fingers find the promised pills in the inside pocket. I swallow them whole. Suddenly, there\u2019s a commotion in the choir loft. A swarm of medics races up the stairs. Comes down with a body hidden under a white sheet. A policeman asks if I\u2019m waiting for someone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the morgue I give him one last kiss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They say you\u2019re going to hell, \u00c9amonn. A judgment on us both. <\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, <\/em>I wake with blood between my legs. While everyone else is dead to the world, I flush the clotted mess down the basement toilet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/em><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Any other sins<\/em>, the priest asks. I think of how it\u2019s legal now. How old he or she would be. What color eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n None, Father<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The priest\u2019s gnarled fingers make the sign of the cross.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I kneel in the pew and recite the penitent\u2019s prayer.\u00a0Hell\u2019s not so bad,<\/em>\u00a0\u00c9amonn\u00a0says, pulling me into his arms. I rest my head on his shoulder.\u00a0You\u2019re not real<\/em>, I whisper. St. Pat looks down from the altar. His painted face shows no mercy.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside is a mist of light rain. I unlock my VW. A jacket is draped across the empty passenger seat. I press its leather against my face. Search for the Marlboro smell of him. And inhale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ________<\/p>\n\n\n\n Roberta Beary grew up in Queens, New York and identifies as gender-fluid. Honors: 1st Prize (Poetry) 2022 Bridport Prize, <\/em>Best Microfiction 2019 & <\/em>2021, <\/em>Best Small Fictions <\/em>2020 & <\/em>2022. Their work is featured in <\/em>The New York Times, <\/em>Rattle Magazine, <\/em>Atticus Review and other publications. A trauma survivor, they divide their time between USA and Ireland.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"