In the secret place – a rare place without history – I am standing on a cliff edge filled with fire. A step and a half toward heaven. A step toward hell and ready to fall.
A beautiful woman, simultaneously near at hand and far removed. Stimulated. Simulated in the flashing silver, pink, and purple light. Rhythmic music bumps and grinds as she writhes upon the couch, lithe and lean.
“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t. I’m married, a one woman man.”
“And I’m only one woman,” she whispers in my ear, her lips and breath on the back of my neck. The words sound like a threat or a promise or both.
My hands held out, held up in surrender. Evil thoughts, and adulterous.
Strip off them clothes. That bra. Them panties too.
Beautiful feet, long legs, rounded navel, her waist within my arms. I’m in danger. My face between her breasts.
Take my money.
“Baby,” she says as she pulls me in – expecting something to happen. I am waiting for generosity, for affection. Waiting for love and respect. How do I open up my doubts about God, and Christ, and the church, express my mortgage anxiety, my family fears?
Long dark lashes surrounding her eyes, long dark hair. “Oh, baby, what I can show you...”
A man should love his wife.
I didn’t love her
– sin of omission.
I did pursue her –
sin of emission.
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