Atheists Who Kneel and Pray

by Tarryn Fisher

  I changed my outfit three times the next morning. First, it was a pair of black jeans and a pink sweater, then grey sweatpants and a thermal top. Then I changed again for obvious reasons, back into the pink sweater. Finally, I settled on all black. I was emo, I was goth, I was an assassin of hearts and I didn’t give a fuck about David fucking Lisey. I pulled my hair into a tight severe bun and slashed eyeliner across my lids. My lipstick…there was none, because girls who didn’t wear lipstick didn’t care. That’s what my mum used to say. I put Chapstick on instead of lipstick in case he tried to kiss me.

  SAM. Seattle’s art museum. He was waiting for me outside. I spotted him before he spotted me. I stopped in the middle of the street when I saw him, just as the light changed to red. A car honked at me. I didn’t know why I stopped; maybe it was that I saw him and then I couldn’t move. I made it to the other side just as he saw me. His hands were in his pockets, he didn’t take them out as he watched me walk toward him. There was this look on his face.

  “You don’t even seem surprised that I came,” I said.

  “I’m not.” He shrugged.

  “Why not?”

  “When there’s chemistry you can’t stop the reaction.”

  “Isn’t that clever, Bill Nye,” I said.

  “How do you know about the science guy, English?”

  “We have the internet too over on my side of the pond.”

  He took my hand as we walked toward the doors, and I let him. He’d given me a nickname and I hadn’t even kissed him yet.

  “I like your boots,” he said.

  I looked down at my boots. The same ones the bartender had commented on a few nights earlier.

  “Why?” I asked him. “What do you like about them?”

  “They look like you’ve had them for a dozen years. Like they’re well loved. If you can love boots like that, how much more could you love me?”

  I was speechless. Dumb. I felt so stupid for liking what he said, so vulnerable.

  “They’re just boots,” I told him. “You’re making a thing out of boots.”

  “You’re not even from here, Yara,” he said as he held the door open for me. “Everything you have means something.”

  He was right. So right.

  “I’ll tell you about the boots if you tell me what was wrong with you yesterday.”

  He looked at me in surprise, his fingers squeezing mine for the briefest of moments.

  “How do you know something was wrong?” he asked me.

  “I could just tell.”

  He looked away then back at me. “My dad,” he said. “He had a stroke. He’s all right,” he said quickly. “But, we were scared. Seeing your hero lie on a hospital bed—pale and helpless—really puts things in perspective, you know?”

  I didn’t know. I had no heroes. No idols.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But, I don’t like it when you hurt.” I imagined that we both looked surprised. I certainly was.

  “Forget I said that,” I said.

  “Said what?”

  I smiled.

  “I like it when you care about me and then pretend that you don’t,” David said. “It’s almost like I’m the only one who has that privilege.”

  “Do I come across that cold?”

  “Yes.”

  I sighed. “You have to. When you’ve been hurt and you’re trying to be okay. You can’t let people know they have power over you.”

  He didn’t chastise me or try to prove me wrong. I appreciated the lack of clichés—sympathy. We stopped in front of a painting of a boy on a skateboard. No one was watching him, but he was performing for himself.

  “It’s better that you’re cautious,” he said. “If there’s no one to protect you, you have to protect yourself.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That almost made me like you.”

  “What would seal the deal, Yara? I give great head.” And just like that, we were back to normal—flirty, witty…

  I shook my head and he smiled and we looked at a sculpture of a face between a lotus flower. Perfect.

  Yeah, I was going to date him. I knew that then. Serious one minute, making jokes the next. He made my truth light and funny without diminishing the importance of it. The perfect man. Perfect for me.

  The first time we had sex it wasn’t like it was in books and movies. Nothing choreographed, nothing seamless. We’d gone back to my apartment after spending the afternoon at the museum and a quick dinner of sushi and wine. He couldn’t open my bra strap and I had to reach back myself and unhook it while his lips kissed a line across my collarbone, and he moaned like he was already inside of me. He didn’t shove his dick in my mouth and tell me to take it while I gagged and pretended to like choking on a cock. He touched my body reverently, like it was made of something breakable—glass. It was like he’d never seen breasts as beautiful as mine, a stomach as beautiful as mine. My legs were one of the Seven Wonders of the World to David Lisey. I watched him experience me and I was both fascinated and wary. His face a mixture of pain and anger that I didn’t understand until l asked him about it later.

  “I was angry that other men had touched you before me. I was trying not to lose my shit.”

  Was I angry that he’d been touched by other women? No. I wasn’t the type to care about the past. I knew that most women were jealous of ex-lovers and past relationships, but that wasn’t me. My friend Ann, upon hearing my life story, told me I’d never been in love. But she was wrong. I’d been in love more times than I could count. At the time, I’d argued that I’d fallen hard for all the men I’d been with, I was just the type of woman who knew when it was time to move on.

  “That’s the thing, Yara,” she’d said to me. “There is no moving on when you’re truly in love. You try and you keep trying, but that love is a stain on your life. It’s just not that easy.”

  Sex with David had been different. There was a sincerity in the way he touched me, an honesty and openness. Many men had taken me, proven their expertise, left bruises on my body and tingling in my limbs. It had been a big show each time, the way they wanted to impress rather than being impressed. No one had kissed my nipples with such reverence. No one had slipped a finger inside of me and moaned in pleasure. This was what it was like to be worshiped.

  After, we lay separately staring up at the ceiling. One of his hands was under the sheet on my upper thigh, hot and weighted. I liked the feeling and detested it at the same time. You shouldn’t grow to like the feel of a man’s hand on your body because it would soon be gone, and then what would you do? Cry yourself to sleep every night like my mother? Both of my hands clutched the sheet to my chest as my eyes moved rapidly over the ceiling. I looked over at David and he was staring at me.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked. Was I blushing? That would be embarrassing.

  “Tell me about your boots,” he said. “The ones you always wear.”

  I pursed my lips and crossed my eyes. “Everything isn’t a story, David,” I said. “They’re just boots.”

  “Maybe you don’t think the simple story of your boots is important, but it’s the simple things that tell the most about our complexities.”

  His interest in me felt like a burden. If he dug too deep, he’d come up empty-handed.

  “Humor me.” He reached out and touched a piece of my hair, lifting it between his fingers and tugging.

  I sighed, but I was already in compliance with his request, pulling from my memory the story of the boots.

  “When I left England and came here to America, I started out in New York. Everyone’s dream, right? To see the great city of New York.” I laughed at myself remembering, but he only nodded. “The only pair of shoes I brought with me was a pair of sandals. It was summer and I figured I’d buy what I needed when I got settled. Anyway, I got a job in a restaurant in Manhattan and of course, I had to buy a pair of those terrible non-slip shoes that restaurants often require. So then it was just the sandals and the ugly restaura
nt shoes. I got really depressed that fall. It was a combination of missing home and not being able to find my place in New York yet. One day I was walking to work with my head down, thinking about what an awful failure I was, when I looked up and saw these boots in a shop window. They were badass, tough—you know…” I glanced at David and he nodded like he knew exactly.

  “So, I marched into the store and bought them. Except they were four hundred dollars and took every penny in my bank account. But, I didn’t care. I was convinced the boots would make me tough. And I’ve been wearing them for a year now and they show no signs of wear. Best four hundred dollars I ever spent, even if I had to eat every meal from the free salad bar at work for the next month.”

  David rolled onto his back and now it was his turn to stare at the ceiling.

  “And you didn’t want to tell me that story,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Are you going to write a song about it?” I teased. It was a joke, only a joke, but he nodded seriously.

  “Yes, probably.”

  I rolled my shoulders and stretched, suddenly embarrassed and wanting to change the subject.

  “Did all that great sex put a kink in your neck?” He was leaning up on his elbow all of a sudden, his eyes mischievous.

  I laughed and put a hand over his face to push him away. He kissed my palm and then fell onto his back. We were playful together. It didn’t feel like work to be with him.

  “I’ve not been worshiped that way before,” I told him, half joking and half serious.

  I rolled on top of him to distract him from my outlandish statement, pressing my nose to his.

  “That seems wrong,” he said, his voice husky. “Something as powerful as you.” He reached up to knead my behind and I closed my eyes and buried my face in the crook of his neck.

  “Again,” I said. “Let’s go to church again…”

  He grabbed my thighs and moved them apart so that I was straddling him.

  “Open then,” he said. “Let me in.”

  Open then, let me in.

  I put the coffee on and then slipped into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get my hair in order. I could hear him snoring softly from the bedroom, a gentle sound, yet it gave me anxiety. I didn’t normally let them spend the night, but he wasn’t like the others, was he? No, around the others I’d always felt too dressed, armored. They’d pried and pulled a little, but my armor was custom-made, strong. With David, I felt naked, the softest parts of my flesh exposed and vulnerable. That’s why I was in the bathroom straightening myself up when it normally wouldn’t matter. Like I could cover one thing up with another, you know?

  I reached for the mugs and set them on the counter, my hands shaking. He was a good boy, but he was a boy. Not at all like the men I usually sleep with: hard…detached…sleazy. I heard him stir in the other room and then the rustle of sheets as he got out of bed. I prepared my face, arranged it so that I looked bored. No big deal, men are whatevs. It was awful to be this person, so jammed up with bad experiences you couldn’t let anyone see your real face. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms up and under my T-shirt so we were skin to skin. I liked it, though under no circumstances would I ever have admitted that. I felt like one of those babies in the preemie ward who needed kangaroo care to bond.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’ve made the coffee.”

  I turned away, busied myself with the sugar and cream. So white. One was smooth and rich, the other was grainy and hard. I liked the way they looked sitting next to each other: the pot of cream and the bowl of sugar.

  “I can see that.”

  He spun me around, the tops of his fingers already skimming the right places on my underwear. I let him back me up until I was pressed against the counter, the coffee pot hissed softly behind me. I decided right then that the sound of coffee brewing was the best soundtrack for sex. His hair was disheveled, his eyes filled with me as he stared on steadfastly. Be careful, David, I wanted to say. He was trying to see into me and that was never a good idea. Both of his thumbs looped through the sides of my panties as he worked at tugging them off. They slid down my legs and I closed my eyes against the feeling: soft cotton became so erotic paired with desire. The hissing of the coffee, the finger that found me and pressed in. My knees buckled, just a little and I sucked air through my teeth until I made my own hissing.

  “Oh yeah?” he said, looking interested. “Tell me more.” He had such full lips, such earnest eyes.

  I bit my bottom lip, determined not to make another sound. I wouldn’t tell him a damn thing.

  “Tell me, Yara,” he urged.

  I tilted my head up, trying not to pant, calling to the white expanse of the ceiling for help.

  “You don’t want to give me your voice, but your eyes speak too,” he said. I closed them. “Ah. Well, that takes care of that.” He switched up his movements: one thumb on the outside, two fingers inside. Everything was moving in a circle.

  Rhythm, I thought. He’s a musician. I felt his free hand move to my chest. Not my breast, but to the general area where my heart was beating out a fast song.

  “What about this?” he said. “Can you slow your heart rate too…your breathing?” I did. I took a couple of deep breaths, relaxed. I was climbing, even so, it was uphill, a bit strained.

  “All right,” he said. Our cheeks were pressed together and I could feel his breath on my ear.

  “You forgot about one thing though, Yara.” He added speed and pressure to the movement his fingers were making. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to ask him what it was I forgot, and I was afraid of what my voice would sound like if I did.

  “You’re very, very wet,” he said. “Your body will always betray you. It’s a tattletale.” And then I came so hard there really was no way to keep the sounds inside of my body. I cried out and when I was finished, I slid down to the floor exhausted. David whistled while he poured the coffee. He glanced down once to ask how many sugars I took and I held up two fingers without looking at him. Then he handed me my mug and sat down next to me on the floor.

  “This is nice,” he said. He sipped his coffee and stared at the wall with me, one leg up, his forearm resting casually across his knee.

  “We’re just staring at a wall,” I said.

  “We are,” he assured me. “We’re staring at a wall, and my fingers smell like you, and just a few hours ago I came really fucking hard inside the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And now we’re doing my favorite thing—drinking coffee and being reflective…while staring at a wall.”

  I nodded with a new appreciation for my wall. “It’s a nice wall,” I said. “Very white.”

  “Very white,” he agreed. “And smooth.”

  “It wouldn’t be as white if I had kids. People with kids always have dingy walls.” I don’t know what possessed me to say it. Why in that moment I was even thinking of kids, especially since I DID NOT WANT THEM. David seized the moment.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I know I’m good in bed, but damn, girl. Already planning out our life together.” I stared at him, mortified and he laughed. “Relax, English,” he said. “I’ll ask you to marry me first. Stages.”

  I sighed. “You were pretty good,” I said. “Pity you were only good for about four minutes before…”

  A nightmare: he began to tickle me. Long fingers wiggling between my ribs, crawling up my sides. I fell over onto the wood laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. David straddled me, laying kisses all over my face while his hands continued to find my weak spots. By sheer miracle, neither coffee mug was turned over, and when he was done with me he stood up and pulled me to my feet.

  “If we practice every day—twice a day, actually—I think I can add a minute to my time each time.” He was joking, but he sounded so hopeful, like fucking me for an extended length of time would bring him true happiness.

  He pulled me toward my bedroom then suddenly stopped halfway through the doorway.

  “Do you want kids?” he asked.

&nb
sp; I shook my head no.

  “Hmm.” He pondered my face thoughtfully, like he didn’t quite believe me. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to fuck anyone else up,” I told him. It was the truth. Those of us who’d been fucked up thought of those things. Not everyone was an optimist.

  “Do you think you’ll change your mind?” he asked, and I wondered if this was about to be a deal breaker. Usually men ran when you told them you wanted to have their babies, David was disappointed that I didn’t want to have his babies, or anyone else’s.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “I’m not broken because I don’t want the same thing as everyone else. And, no, you’re not invited to fix me, or soften my heart, or make me want things I never knew I wanted.”

  He looked at me for a long time, and then he said: “It’s human nature to want to fix things. That was my first thought, actually, but you’re right. Someone should take you as you are, not have an agenda for how they want to change you.”

  I breathed.

  I liked him a little more. More than I did five minutes ago when we were staring at a wall and drinking our coffee. If this kept up I was going to be in love by nightfall.

  “Okay,” he said. “What about adoption? That way you’re not bringing more souls into the world, you’re just helping the ones already here.”

  I’d thought about adoption before. But, I was only twenty-five. It still seemed like a remote idea.

  “An older child,” I said. “Maybe eight or nine.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “I like that. I like that a lot.”