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Elijah and I don’t speak until it’s bedtime, and even then, it’s only to exchange polite words of good night as we meet in the hallway and take turns with the shower. He looks like he wants to say more, but then a burst of impassioned Walloon makes its way from the common room, and we are reminded we are not alone.
I nod at him and go to my room.
I pray on my knees for a few minutes, my usual nightly prayers, my brain skirting around what I did that day in the clearing. The garish break from celibacy. And when I try to think of something to say to God, some apology I can genuinely speak, my tongue stays still. I feel miserable with what I did, but I know I would do it again. And again. As many times as there are chances.
And I don’t know what the right prayer is for that.
My
