I took the ring off in the car again.
The dent in my finger looked worse in morning light. Eight o’clock mass had emptied the way Saturday night had, only brighter, crueler, the church still smelling like incense and coffee and other people’s goodness. I walked to the side door with the band wrapped in the same tissue and my body already remembering his fingers.
Father Elias was waiting.
He locked the sacristy behind me without a greeting. Vestments on the hook. Wine on the shelf. The table he had bent me against yesterday, wiped clean, as if linen could undo what his hand had done.
He looked at my left hand.
“Show me.”
I did.
“Did he touch you last night?”
“He tried.” My voice came out rough. “I told him I was tired. He slept. I didn’t come.”
Something dark pleased moved through
