When We Were Catholics | Chapter 1 - Gloria

He hated it.

A flicker of storm crosses his face. His neck erect, his eyes scarlet yet ebony in unison, his Roman collar stretched tight across.

He wonders what it will end.

Checking his watch, he looks for the time when time is just a myth. In reality, there is no time and there is no space.

We all exist in infinity.

Math is his strong suit. Ever since his days at Oxford, where he did his thesis on fractals, he’s always excelled at using numbers to calculate the sin of others.

These sinners, kneeling before him, their hypocrisy unmatched by the corrupt politicians that governed his city,

He preferred the Vatican. Italy, a country filled with ancient history and religion and culture, and none like it.

New York City is the bane of his existence.

He tugs at his Roman collar with his finger.

These sinners. I wish they were dead.

He remembered walking through Washington Square Park. A homeless woman sitting on a bench grabbed his rosary attached to his belt, yanking him to her. The scent of sin and smoke enveloped him, and he coughed.

Pulling his rosary away from her, he ran from the park, stumbling on the steps, back to his Church.

Away from the hard drugs, away from the unsolicited rapes, away from the prostitution, away from the thefts, away from the sinners.

These people don’t know God.

Etched in his face, there existed a mark of contempt. Those who see him admire him. He was pastor, and he knew how to put on an act.

We all have affects, don’t we, Fr. Edward?

A woman said this to him. Beautiful, a golden actress, glorious and tempting, magnetic and charming.

He caught the scent of sex before her many times, a perfume that aroused his very essence.

Holding his breath, he groans.

He wanted her. And she knew it.

Leaning back on his chair, he closes his eyes and sighs.

Another day. Another week.

Time doesn’t stop, does it?

He remembered.

A child with a proper London accent. Blunt bangs, hair shorn to her head, more boy than girl, Chinese yet British, sitting on the steps of a Catholic church in London with a picnic basket filled to the brim with meat sandwiches, she looks up at him, smiling.

How can I be Catholic, Fr Edwards? Aren’t I Asian?

He smiles bitterly to himself.

Passive aggression at its finest. From a toddler, nonetheless.

What is your name?

He picks up the sandwich from her basket besides her.

My name?

Sam.