he crouches; head, chest, left side, right side. you follow suit, surprised to see him still standing when you look up.
“i like the aisle,” he says, holding his right hand towards the pew to indicate that you should go first. you do, sitting down far enough away from the aisle for him to sit. when he does, your thighs touch. you shift towards the middle.
the woman in front of you is clutching rosary beads; amber colored and draped gracefully across her knuckles. they remind you of the ones hanging next to your desk at home - made of olive wood and carefully carved by a monk who gave them to your parents on the streets of Assisi, Italy. you can feel the wood drape over your fingers.
your eyes wander during the service, tracing the paintings on the walls and the arches in the corners and the lines of his neck, which make him look regal, even just sitting in a pew.
your knees scream at you when you kneel while the rest of them pray. you don’t know if he participates because you are lost in your head, thinking of spiritual things and the way the church grounds looked and how good he smells.
the ride home is relatively silent. you say that you liked the service, he says that he didn’t. you thank him for taking you; he hugs you over the seatbelt as you sit in front of your house and says that you should go again. you agree.
inside, you pick up the rosary beads. they drape over your fingers and you kneel like the woman, pressing the beads to your chest.
you feel nothing.
