Damage - A. M. Jenkins [20]
More like Heather, actually.
But Heather’s prettier.
You look down at the hymnal, not really seeing trying to remember Tiffani’s face. All you can picture Heather’s—but it doesn’t fit with the dress Tiffani wore that day. You don’t know why, but you can’t imagine Heather Mackenzie wearing something with a lot splashy colors. Not that she’d wear some prim dress with a bow at the neck, either—you’ve never seen her in anything like some of these dresses in the pews around you. In fact, Heather doesn’t seem like the church type at You’d bet cold hard cash she’s at home right this minute. Even still in bed, maybe.
Now there’s a picture. Heather in bed. You can’t quite see her in pajamas. Maybe in a pajama top. Or some clingy thing with thin little shoulder straps, her hair spilling over her bare back the way it spilled over cheeks when she sucked your finger in the truck last night.
Let goods and kindred go,
This mortal life also;
The body they may kill
God’s truth abideth still….
You suddenly hear the words you’re supposed to singing. You realize your mind keeps wandering to some mortal things. Very mortal. In church.
His kingdom is forever.
Ahhhh-mehhhn.
The sanctuary fills with that rustling, collapsing sound made by a bunch of people sitting down at the same time. You sit down, too, a moment late.
Here you are thinking yourself into horniness, and in the one place on earth where you’re supposed to have a clean and pure heart.
I’m sorry, you tell God, and wait for Him to answer—the way He used to answer your prayers, with a feeling of peace.
Nothing happens.
Of course not. The things you fail at are things inside, things that nobody but God sees. Things you couldn’t explain to anybody—like wallowing around in bed for hours when everybody else just gets up. Like moping around when you’re supposed to shake it off and b joyful. Keeping conversations light when they should get serious. Staying quiet when you should speak up. Having another beer when you should quit for the night. Putting your hands all over some girl when you should keep them to yourself.
A million things you screw up, and to top it off, now you’re thinking lustful thoughts in the house of the Lord.
“…because of his defect,” the preacher is saying, in that rich voice that means he’s reading the words of God, “he must not go near the curtain or approach the and so desecrate My sanctuary. I am the Lord, who makes them holy.”
You feel yourself shiver. Becky glances at you; you ignore her. I’m sorry, you tell God again. He’s still not answering.
You can’t say that you blame Him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night you dream you’re driving the pickup with Heather sitting next to you. But in the dream, she’s not the passenger side, she’s sitting in the center, pressed warm against you, so close that she has one foot resting either side of the stick shift. She’s wearing a very skirt.
You have to reach between her legs to grab the stick. You feel the hum under your foot as you press the gas pedal, powering up the engine, everything starts rolling, then, ahh! you thrust the stick between those slender thighs, into second gear. The engine thrums louder, you grip the knob in your palm, slide the stick out to third gear, let the throbbing build again and…ahh! in to fourth.
That’s when the alarm goes off and you wake up, sweaty and trembling. All through the morning your body—brain included—seems to be vibrating at a higher frequency than usual. A Heather-frequency. It’s not at all, like a low, pleased hum