06.21.05

itsnt it like frosting?

That morning the birds were singing in the church courtyard and she was sitting next to him, uncomfortable, because she didn�t know what to do. The stone Mary�s pupil-less eyes stared ahead as her heart was being wrenched from her, some torture more pitiful that the cross because it offered not the rest of death. She seemed to be asking for mercy, for death. If you could please crush the sacred heart? If only you could just trod it underfoot?
Mary did not make for romance, nor did the two infant boys playing on the other side of the court, both waiting for their memorable deaths.
The birds had stopped singing, but he was still there swinging his chubby legs in their blue shorts. She was trying not to stare and the few inches of exposed flesh there, above the sock, creamy white. Blue blazer, burgundy tie, a shirt collar, a face whispering into clasped fingers.
What would he look like, a victim of the stigmata? Would the flowery blood flowing from his hands rouge his lips? Would the blood from his temple disappear into the fabric of his tie when his eyes rolled back as he reached for the sky in ecstasy? Each signature would be a pact of blood.
She prayed for his stigmata, for his priestly hood. As a young priest he would have a small spot, just at the crown of his head, that would shine the same creamy white skin. He could be seen on his knees scrubbing the floors of their grime, he would hum on his morning route, placing his hands on the cousins as he went. He would offer everyone he met marigolds.
She prayed too that she would grow old, that her children might be happy and her husband rich. They would have five, each within a year of each other and he would come home late, after dinner, with kisses and roses. He planned vacations with the children to places she�d never heard of, names like peppers and expensive perfumes. They took pictures, kept scrapbooks, had apple martinis.
That was okay.
So long as she has these autumns to herself and he was still there with his lips whispering. So long as there was a bit of creamy flesh to be seen.

shi-ou-sama at 1:00 a.m.

previous | next