“She said: ‘Father, can I tell your congregation how a resurrection really feels?’
I was halfway in love by the time we sat down to dinner the night before. When she had asked if it was okay if she used her teeth to finish scraping the bits of steak and marrow from the bones, all I could manage was to pour another glass of red in response. ‘Holy fuck.’ More wine was immediately required, because some form of human sacrifice was about to take place.
Now standing there in the doorway in the dim early morning light watching her sleep, studying the lines of her body, the way her hair fell against her shoulder… watching the rise and fall of her ribcage, listening to her breath in the stillness, the air still holding the scent of last night’s passion play and all the things we crucified together while staring deeply into each other’s eyes…
I already knew that I was fucked. Deeply fucked.
‘Fuck.’ I know I muttered it aloud, so at least the morning air would bear witness.