--Sweating Pools

Sundays before the "then", were always the same for the both of us. The rhythmic sway of bodies to the instruments and songs which took us, and hours of watching our beloved pastor run all around the stage non-stop. He preached as though God judged our efforts by how far our legs could run, and how loud our voices boomed his name. Sweating pools and constantly using handkerchiefs, and his congregation loved him for it, they coveted his used handkerchiefs, falling all over themselves to touch him, paying for special seats to be within touching distance of him. Susan’s father was not one of them, in fact, he hated the pastor, he thought him to be filth, and never lost a moment to mock him. But for some reason, he stayed, dragging Susan to church, singing praises and continuously pledging loyalty to God, whilst mocking whom we thought to be the man of God. The church hated him as expected, but he didn’t care, and I liked that about him.

His home, Susan’s home, was filled with pictures of all smiling faces, they didn’t assume a demure expression in order to look as saintly and sinless as possible, her skirts weren’t ankle length, and her tops didn’t fall as though no definition existed beneath it. So, on the day her eyes dimmed, and her laughter ceased to be so frequent, it was obvious.