A Vow
She guesses his favorite color, his biggest fear, where he’s from by how he pronounces “bonfire.” A southerner raised by Baptists who only sing hymns. He likes yellow and fears being eaten by a Komodo dragon. He reads the Bible every night.
He likes this woman. She asks too many questions and answers before he can. She’s right. He’s apprehensive. The proper words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t speak. Feelings are concealed.
She’s done something to him. She makes him laugh when he shouldn’t. Makes him test his own faith. She spreads her arms and comes closer. He’s wrapped in her colorful fabric. Her exotic scent. She dances in his mind. Divine connection evolves.
He witnesses curves. Lips. Legs that can widen. A want. A need. She squeezes him, and he remembers the first time he held a girl’s hand. His sweaty palm. Savoring an innocent encounter.
Then comes the kiss. The bitten lip. Drawing nearer. He’s careful. Patient. She’s eager. She wants more. The cross around his neck nestles underneath his shirt. A prayer is made.
Forgiveness prepares in the corner of a room for a man who’s yet to sin. He kneels and gives himself up to God. Then, he gives himself up to her. She pulls on his collar. He follows her footprints.
Her nightgown slips off. His eyes memorize her freckles, the shape of her breasts, the length of her hair. His body presses against hers. Each breath is felt. Each moment is built slowly.
He finds himself inside an unknown place. He stretches it open. A new sanctuary. A warmth he’s never experienced. The deeper he goes, the closer he reaches his true essence. There are no doubts. There is no resistance.
Her soft moans. Her graceful rhythm. Sacred. Protected. Her fingers engrave his divinity. He takes a sharp breath. She says his name and he fills her. He’s surrendered to her.
On Sunday, he surrenders to the Lord. Being one with her was exciting. Sinful. Fulfilling. The two times in life he’s been at peace. With God and with her. But he can’t be with her.
He showers and senses her hand on his neck, his chest, his abdomen. Lower. Faster. Another great flood. His conscience flows down the drain. Intimacy is natural. Beautiful. Damaging.
On his walk, he sees her. Vibrant. Carefree. Waving at geese. Laughing to herself. The sunlight lands on her. He’s back there, again. The same spot he saw her bare and felt her pulsating.
He rereads the Bible. Dreams of her. Prays. Fantasizes. Prays some more. A part of him is gone. It’s cuddled up next to her. Twisted tightly. He misses her. Misses who he could be. Unrestrained.
He finds strength in self-control. He exhibits cowardice in not allowing himself to be vulnerable. The same hands that turn pages of the holy book are meant for passion. Pleasure. Exploration.
The church doors open. He embraces religion as he embraced her. Silence as heads are bowed. A stillness before he released inside her. Concentrating on the scriptures. Distracted by her memory.
A sermon on integrity. He’s fenced himself with untruths. He’s a man who feels too much, numbing himself to be the impossible for tainted followers. Her presence lingers. She’s sitting in front of him, etched on his skin. His soul.