Epilogue
Poppy One Year LaterThree a.m. Christmas morning. You have me sitting at the edge of a pew, my hands folded in my lap. I wanted this, I remind myself. I asked for this. But still, I’m nervous. Nervous that we’ll get caught certainly, (although it’s Jordan’s church and I know he won’t be back inside until dawn.) And I’m nervous about why—why we are acting out this fantasy or memory or whatever it is. It makes me nervous how much I want it, how much I dream about it. And it makes me nervous how aroused I am right now, doing nothing more than waiting for you in a dark, empty church.
When you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I’m sure this wasn’t what you expected to hear.
Your footsteps echo throughout the lofty sanctuary, loud and clear in the silence, and then I feel it, the
