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Stelle was in the pews again.
A fairly regular occurrence: he would see her lounging on the wooden bench without an ounce of respect for the Lord, the acrid stench of charred sugar and chemicals wafting out from the candy cigarette she clutched between her pursed lips, lit over and over despite its refusal to keep burning.
Never during mass—small blessings—but nevertheless a nuisance. He walked up the aisle: he’d snatch that damn sugar stick out of her mouth, watch her blink, smile like she wasn’t the epitome of faithless living⸻
“Oh, hey Father Sunday,” she says.
“Must you stink up the pews with every visit?” he asks, deadpan irritation she grins at.
“The sad tradeoff of aesthetic without the risk of lung cancer,” she shrugs, “Stinky.”
“It’s not working as well as you think it is,” he mutters, starts back down the aisle. “And something tells me you’re still giving yourself mouth cancer…”
Stelle snorts, follows him out. “Maybe if we were in California,” she jokes, throws her hands behind her head. “So how was mass?”
“You would know if you ever attended.”
“Mm, no, but I do think I’d get a fantastic morning nap in.”
Sunday rolls his eyes. “It went well. The congregation has seen some growth lately, which is…a little unusual, nowadays.”
“Oh? Bet you’re pretty happy about that.”
“It’s promising, I suppose. It seems even the most wayward souls can return to our Lord, if they wish.”
Stelle wrinkles her nose. “You better not be testing another one of your sermons on me.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry…I know the limits of my persuasion.”
And he did: Stelle didn’t do spirituality, didn’t really have a use for it, only knew as much as she needed to follow along with his more impassioned and…deeply personal speeches. It used to irritate him, he thought, but there was…something sweet beyond measure, that Stelle would still listen, still try—as much as she could try—to understand him.
He collected his Bible and notes from the pulpit, then walked through the door beside the sanctuary, into the church back offices. It was a quiet journey: nothing but the distant and happy cries of the Sunday schoolchildren, the laughter of local teens loitering in the back corner of the parking lot, far enough out of the way that no one ever bothered calling the authorities on them.
It was peaceful. Solitary.
“Robin’s flying home tomorrow, isn’t she?”
He blinks, and Stelle smiles when he glances sidelong, still following him through the backrooms, like she was allowed to be there. He smiles, doesn’t mind the company. “Coming in early on a red eye. I’ll be heading over to pick her up at seven o’clock.”
“Oof, yikes. That’s a miserable time to be awake for.”
Sunday laughs. “I’m rather used to it at this point.”
“Still…drive safe?”
“…Always,” he whispers, meets her gold gaze with a smile, lets the silence drift in again. She would match his pace, a slow stroll to the corner office he’d kept for years now, for by the early afternoon, the sunlight streamed in just so, speckled through the trees onto the settee against the far wall, bright enough for him to need no overhead light: dark enough to treat his many headaches through the week kindly.
There was always some work to be done, notes to prepare for his next sermons, scheduling out any requested private sessions, confessionals, charity events, and all the life that happened in the margins: his sister returning home from tour, outings with friends…anniversaries.
A loud laugh trailed in through the window screen on the late summer breeze, no doubt from a happy teen lighting up handrolled joints with school friends they half-knew and half-liked, living life like tomorrow was never coming. Too young to sense the summer slipping through their fingers. Too young to see the slow collapse of time.
“Kids are being kinda loud today, aren’t they?” Stelle muses, hops up onto the low windowsill, just as disrespectful of the church property as the kids in the parking lot beyond.
“They’ll be gone soon enough. They like to start wandering the cemetery perimeter when the sun begins to set. Not exactly virtuous behavior…but it will give me some peace and quiet.”
Stelle laughs. “You sure you don’t wanna go out there and give them the what for? Extol all the…virtues of life as a servant of God?” she pauses, eyes narrow and contemplative. “…Extol is a real word, right?”
“It is,” he nods, smiles, “and you even used it correctly.”
“Yes!” Stelle whispers in triumph, and he couldn’t help but laugh at her, she would always find joy in the silliest of things.
It was something beautiful.
“Coming up on ten years now, isn't it?”
Sunday looks up, sees Stelle framed in the warm afternoon light shimmering through the trees, wistful, just enough unlike her⸻
He feels his heart lurch when she turns, smiles:
“Well, Sunday? Miss me yet?”
The pews never smell of burning candy cigarettes anymore.
The kids that loiter in the church parking lot are…younger than she is,
Never feigned half-baked interest in theology,
Never helped him through a crisis of faith,
Never,
Never spun out on a winding back road;
found in a pool of their own blood, unconscious and unstable⸻
He stares at the empty windowsill.
Wishes it was as occupied as he imagines it in his darkest moments, when the Lord’s light isn’t enough to keep him whole;; his eyes fall to his leatherbound planner, to the inside of the cover where he’d taped…one burnt and broken candy cigarette, dug out of the trash in some desperate and low moment, when the thought of losing her was so much, too much to bear;
He wept;
clung tight to that final conversation:
(“How many times do I have to tell you to stop stinking up the pews with these tasteless cavity sticks?”
“Oh, come on, Sunday, lighten up, it doesn’t even smell that bad. Besides, don’t you like knowing I was here?”
“I would know without the smell, given how you snored your way through mass.”
“Oh, did I…? Whoops.”
“I swear the Lord sent you to my church to test the limits of my patience…”
“Maybe! Hey, come to think of it, you showed up in my dream this morning!”
“Did I?”
“Uh-huh. I think…you were an angel. You had wings, on the side of your head. And a halo!”
“Fascinating. And in this dream, were you also an angel?”
“Nah, I was the hero! And I had to thwart your nefarious plans to…become God, or something. You know, even in my dreams, you’re a bit of a stick in the mud. Have you ever thought about fixing that?”
“Mm, maybe on the day you stop stinking up my pews with your stupid candy cigarettes.”
“Spoken like a true priest.”
“Mhm. Get out of my church?”
“Hehe…sure thing, Sunday. Hey…you’re still coming tonight, right?”
“To your group meetup? I’ll pop in if I have the time. Don’t get your hopes up, though. I have a lot to do tonight.”
“Oh…alright then. Well, I guess I’ll see you when I see you, Sunday!”)
He never wished her a safe journey. Too irritated with her belligerence. Too certain he would see her again in only a few hours,
He didn’t know his next glimpse would be stained red; cradled in the cold and sterile discomfort of a waiting room, the steady surgery light above double doors where he stood in the crowd of her loved ones, hoping…praying…for any good news.
But all they could claw back was her still-living corpse.
He flips his planner closed.
Tomorrow, he will drive to the airport to pick up Robin from her flight, meet up with Welt and Himeko to plan the next weekend’s particulars. He’ll spend the week following where his sister leads, and…
They’ll bring her flowers on Saturday.
He’ll write her another note,
Filled with the latest moments she missed.
He’ll tell her he misses her.
She won’t answer.
And on Sunday,
Once the knave lies empty after mid-morning mass.
He’ll see Stelle in the pews again.
Lighting candy cigarettes,
over and over:
As if she’d never left.