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Mara.
I always liked Sunday mornings, even before I started sinning in them. There’s something about the air in the church that feels thick, like honey or maybe longing. When I walk through the doors, there’s a kind of hush that makes me feel powerful, like everyone’s pretending to look at the altar but really watching for the next scandal. Maybe that’s just my ego talking, but today I’ve earned it.
I picked my dress last night, holding up options in the mirror, turning to see how they clung and shifted, imagining Father Gabriel’s eyes catching just a flash of collarbone, a line of thigh. The black one is best, with thin straps, soft cling, and a neckline that makes my mother frown if she’s paying attention. I don’t bring a sweater, even though I know the stone pews will make my skin
