lost to the cause. At that moment, I embrace that half of me, and I touch my clit.
“Savio,” I whisper softly, to no one in particular, to the air, to fate, to my destiny and his which are on the brink of crossing. “I need you.”
And I let my fingers do the talking, let them take me higher as I rub my clit until I clap my hand to my face and moan into the ball of my fist as I come.
Sweet relief fills me then. A wonderful lethargy that I know will help me drift off to sleep, and with thoughts of him, as always, whispering through my psyche, I finally let the jet lag take hold of me.
Savio
“Now, my children, don’t forget about the food bank. We’re running low on stock, so any donations you can give will be most appreciated.” As expected, I lose their interest at that, but I persevere. “We’re helping a side of our community which is suffering greatly now thanks to the drop in tourism—”
Of course, that makes them worry about themselves.
Agitated, but knowing I tried, and also knowing that a lot of my flock in this parish are below the breadline themselves, I simply sigh as I retreat from the pulpit and wander over to the first pew.
I smile as Lara Ricci grabs my hands as I reach for hers. She squeezes, and murmurs, “You look brighter today, Father.”
“I feel brighter.” I peer at her though. See the bruises under her eyes, the bright yellow of her skin, and know that today is not a good day for her. “How about you?”
“I’m good enough to attend service.”
I snort a little. “You’re always good enough to attend service.”
She grins at me, her wizened face puckering into a semi-toothless smile that always makes me wonder why she doesn’t have false teeth. Unlike a lot of my parishioners, she’s wealthy. A chauffeur drops her off at church, and as she already said, she never misses a service.
Her fingers are frail in mine, and every day, they seem to grow more brittle.
We both know she doesn’t have long left for this Earth, but neither of us mention it.
Just as she’s dying, her soul is going to be liberated, and I know she takes comfort in that.
I’m glad she has her faith. Glad she has the security of it.
In truth, being around people like her, good people, has re-instilled some of my own beliefs.
Rome, this past year, has been good to me. Good for me. I never thought it would be much different. Same shit, different day, and all that. Once you’d seen one church, you’d seen them all—and yes, I know that isn’t a very priestly thought for me to have, but most days, I don’t feel like a priest.
I go through the motions. I do my job. All while I wonder what I’m doing.
The only time it makes sense to me?
When a service ends.
When I walk down the aisle of pews and greet the worshippers.
It amuses me that, during my time here, numbers have increased.
The church doesn’t know what to make of that, and neither do I, in all honesty.
Every other parish I’d been assigned to has been a disaster. No one has particularly liked me, and I haven’t particularly liked anyone there.
Here?
I fit in.
I guess, in a strange way, I’m home.
Not because this is the capital of my faith. The center of the Catholic world. But because this is my father’s country.
This is where I have roots—I’d just never been here long enough to let them take to the soil before.
I give Lara’s hands one last squeeze, and murmur, “I’ll send your chauffeur down for you.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Thank you.” She refuses to walk down the aisle with her stroller, so she uses her driver as a cane instead.
Her stubbornness amuses me, especially when she has to walk to the front pew where her family’s name is engraved.
The Iglezia di Santa Cecilia is in her blood in a way that it isn’t in mine, yet I’ve found a home here.
A place.
As I carry on with my walk, I stop beside Carlo DiRittano. He looks sheepish, and he’s fidgeting under his dad’s firm hold on his shoulder.
“What did you do, Carlo?” I chide, knowing he’s here, midweek, for a reason.
The DiRittanos come every Sunday, without fail, but during the week? Never. Carlo has ADHD, and he keeps doing stuff that shocks the family, so when they’re here on a Wednesday? I know he’s ‘misbehaved.’
I find