My Cardboard Balcony

Poor Eckle's Mistress by Belinda Roddie One drink after another, glasses of cherry and raspberry ale, overtly sweet to mask the tartness of the atmosphere, Master Eckle thought he saw his mistress's hand slide slightly, but deliberately, a shiver of flesh rippling across colder flesh, down the shoulder of his friend Stein's wife, her lips stained purple from her tall glass of wine. He was tempted to yank the tablecloth away from where it caressed his clumsy hips, to see if his lady had removed a slipper so she could curl a toe or two across the other dame's ankle. Instead, he bit his tongue, and, when he saw the women smiling and laughing with noses nearly touching, he raised a glass and toasted to an innocent, growing orchard of friendship.

I didn't want a single prayer from the congregation. I didn't want a homily devoted to me from the pastor, nor psalms dedicated to my fallen name. I didn't want anyone presuming I wanted to carry a cross as if I, too, were to be crucified for the sake of portraying a message. Excommunication was bad enough already, and I wasn't willing to make more of a drama out of it. I was never going back to that church, not even to mouth anyone off. My girlfriend encouraged that mentality. She'd sit next to me on the couch as I stewed, holding my St. Teresa of Avila pendant close to my chest, and kiss me gently on the nose as a sign of "You're doing the right thing."