No Sin to Love
His fingers curl around your wrist, light pressure against your flickering pulse. His lips brush against the palm of your hand, his eyes shut, rapt in the act of kissing you. He touches you with the adoration of a sinner for the saint who saves him.
You let him kiss you, because you love him. You pull away, because you can't. You can't, and yet you do.
You go to your god. He doesn't help. You go to Sister Julienne. She tries to help. You go to your heart. It does not want help.
You pray for guidance, you pray for deliverance, you pray for acquittance. It does not come. So you pray for forgiveness, because you daren't ask for anything more. But you're not sure that there is any forgiveness to spare for you.
You can love a god, but how can you know if he loves you? You can't. You can't see him or hear him or touch him. Your love is sightless, deaf, numb. But you can see a smile that's meant for you. You can hear your name, whispered, like a prayer. You can feel the warmth of skin on skin. And sometimes, that feels more real than a god ever could.
You see Peter kiss Chummy before she goes to work in the hard light of the morning. You see Jane smile meekly at the Reverend Appleby-Thornton, hiding her blush behind her teacup. You see Jenny stop in the middle of work, thinking about someone else, someone she can't have. You see love touch everyone.
"What's it like?" you ask, when it is so late you don't know if it is night or morning, a kind of dark, exhausted purgatory, and Jenny is sitting in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of Horlicks, "Being in love?"
"It's… impossible. And it's stupid. And it's more than anyone could ever want."
Jenny looks up at you, her eyes steeped in curiosity. But you can't think of a way to explain. Not to her, not to anyone. You can't even explain this to yourself.
You can't do this.
Sister Bernadette could never love a man. But Rhona Rose, the girl you were, before – she could. You may be a nun, but you are also a woman. You may want to love your god, but you also need to be loved.
So if, one day, this man takes your hands in his, and if he scatters them with kisses, and if, then, he steps nearer and kisses your lips, then how can you stop him? How can you deny a love you are desperate for?
And if, later, when your heart is soaked in hope and fear and love, and Sister Monica Joan looks at you over her knitting and mutters, "They taught me 'twas no sin to love," you think that, maybe, for once, you understand what she means.
Is it possible to love a man – a mortal, flawed, man – more than a god?
You think about shared cigarettes, pencil drawings, missing buttons. You think about the future, the possibilities overflowing before you. You think about a life with a husband, with a family, with love.
And you know, it is.