Light and Wine Read Online Free Page B

furniture into the van once it’s empty, if you don’t mind.”
    The warm anticipation of seeing Lacie again rushed through my stomach, up into my chest and around my shoulders.

“I’d be happy to, Timothy.   I can leave in an hour, if that’s alright.”
    “Perfect, I’ll just be heading out then. Julia and Lacie should be home if I’m a few minutes late.”
    Adhering to decorum, I finished exams and grabbed my coat and scarf before I left, but even as I dressed for the early spring cold, I knew there was no way it could touch me. I was afire with the thought of being near to her in her home.
    And then.

And then …
    Leaning my weight against my right arm on the window frame, I rub my eyes with my left hand. Years of unfulfilled yearning stirred and strengthened by this afternoon’s confession rolls through me. Silent and unabated, it settles in my chest and palms and hips, and makes every cell of me yearn for precious love.

Moving my hands from the window frame and my eyes as I open them, I run my fingers through my hair and close them over the back of my neck. I press my lips together and pace to my desk, then back to my window, to my closet and to my desk again, keeping my fingers interlocked over the back of my neck.

The want to just press down against where longing concentrates, aches. It’s confounding, how strong the need to touch is, but I don’t.
    Leaving my coat behind, I grab my papers and walk outside just as I am.
    My students’ tests rustle in the late March bluster, their fluttering and my footsteps the only sounds between here and the church.   The office there should be empty, and a more neutral place to focus on finishing my work.
    With a deep inhale of nightfall’s frosted air, I gather the concentration to suppress physical reactions that memories of Lacie bring.   I pull oxygen deep into my chest, and my brightened pulse starts to slow its hum.   I swallow, easing my grip on the papers in my hand, and my limbs begin to relax.  
    Inside the church, the scent of frankincense lingers in the silent air.   Crossing myself as I approach the apse, I pass through the vestry and up a few stairs toward the back of the building. In the office, I settle myself behind the wooden desk. Back straight, red pen in hand, I redirect my eyes to exams.
    The change of scenery helps.
    For a while.
    My eyes and hands grade recollections of irregular Latin verbs, but my heart and soul are in Lacie’s room at her mother’s house, my boots sinking helplessly into the softness of cream carpet and my chest swelling around the sound of her pounding heart.
    I wish I could have stayed there, holding her and listening to her. I wish I had told her how badly I missed her and how frequently I’ve thought of the way we parted the night before she left, how it’s been like walking on shards of regret for haste I allowed.
    I’m just about to sip some water and return my thoughts to my students’ work when my phone rings.
    And I know in every part of me, before I even see the screen, who it is.
    Sitting back in my chair and bringing a deep breath into my chest, I set my pen down and bring my phone to my ear.
    “Hi, little gospel,” I answer, the corners my mouth curving up.
    She hums before she replies, “Hi, Father.”
    I hear her shifting, and wind maybe, and thin staccato, like footsteps.
    “How are you?” she asks.
    “I’m …” Pausing, I sit up straight. My smile stays as I try to pick the best and most honest words.
    “You’re …?” She drags it out, waiting and curious.
    I clear my throat.
    “Missing,” I reply, thankful for this moment and wanting it to last. “I’m missing you.”
    What I’m certain now is wind blows harder and our connection is muffled for a second.
    “I miss you,” she says.
    I press my phone slightly closer, and through broken signals, I still hear the light stepping sounds.
    “Where are you right now?” she asks.
    “In the church office. Where are you?” I