Page 57 of Cillian
“Cillian, I love you.” Her breath heavy, as I gained a rhythm again.
“I love you, too.” My heartrate climbing at getting lost in her again. The plan had always been to end the night in bliss, which was exactly what we did.
Twenty-One
Queenie
We’d fallen into the rhythm of lazy Sundays. Sleeping in and forgetting our commitment to faith or going to church on Sundays. We’d gotten married in a Catholic church, but since the wedding, we hadn't decided on whether our future kids would be raised Baptist or Catholic.
Because of that, we hadn't spent much time learning how different our worship was. “You know, we really need to start going to church on Sundays. Before I married you, I never missed a sermon.”
His pale fingers brushed against my cheek, his blue eyes big and wondering. “I still go to confessional. With the line of work I do, I have to absolve myself of some of these sins. But I’ll admit, I'm not really that spiritual. I always feel like I'm just there wasting God's time, so ain't no need of me being at service.”
A brief silence was followed by Cillian’s warm hands interlocking and releasing from mine.
“From what Bell told me, our service ain't anything like yours. What's it like at your church?”
An unintentional grimace stretched across my lips. Cillian would undoubtedly be uncomfortable in attendance of a Baptist church. Not that he was sensitive to noise, but the energy compared to a Catholic service would shock him.
“Well…” I hesitated. “It's colorful. The people, the music, the worship. You’d see a lot of animated people. If the service starts on time, it ends when it ends. There isn't a set schedule. Black people, we’re passionate about our faith. You would see as much if we were to ever go together.”
I tried imagining Cillian trying not to react to all the unpredictable events that might happen during a service, the things that followed it came flooding back too. “Oh, and there's always a big dinner afterwards at someone's house. Usually family, but it could be friends of family too.”
“It's usually like that with us. Mind blowing how we have so many similarities. How I’d do it, I would say the Rosary. When we pray, we call it the Rosary—and we use rosary beads to track where we are as we, you know? Progress through our teachings. It's a lot to remember and I didn't do much praying in prison. I suppose it never gave me the comfort it gives you. But I respect your desire to want to still attend. We can work on that.”
“Until then, will you consider on praying with me?”
“Of course, darling.” I sat up in bed, scooting down to the ground as he rolled over to my side.
“Do you mean like, now?”
“Of course, I mean now, silly.” Cillian outstretched his arms, then wiped the remainder of sleep out of his eyes before joining me on my knees. I took my time speaking to text, giving Cillian time to repeat the words with understanding. I felt humbled that he was so respectful and open. I only wonder what it would have been like had we gotten married in my choice of church.
“Thank you for allowing me to share this with you.” Cillian rubbed the tops of his thighs, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands afterward. “Feels like it should go without saying, but do you have a favorite scripture?”
Perking up, I turned to him, our knees still glued to the floor. “I do actually. It's one of one that's sort of like my mantra. Psalms, 35:4-5.” As before he could ask me, I recited it verbatim.
I sought the Lord, and he answered me. He delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.
“What's it mean?”
There were many interpretations, but I had my own ideas. “I take it to mean deliverance from something traumatic. Those were the only words that got me through the bad times. Times I would have rather forget. My mother drilled it into me, but now that I’m older, I see it as a sign perhaps she’d been abused too. Maybe it was just her way of passing the baton. But whatever the reason, they became a safe haven for me.”
“Well, it's beautiful. Along with a certain someone,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. It didn’t take long to learn his intention when he grabbed me by the waist to kiss my neck.
“Cillian, we are praying. We're not supposed to be fooling around when we're worshiping.”
“I am worshiping. I'm worshiping you.” He flirted, as I attempted to fight him off, but it turned into playful wrestling.
“I swear the things we do, we're probably going to hell,” I teased back, as he picked me up in his arms, prompting me to wrap my body to contort to his.
“It's like I've told you before. I've got the Sullivan's curse. Chances are I was on my way there anyways. I can't explain it, but making love to you makes me feel closer to God. Otherwise, why do we call his name so much while we're doing it?”
The phone rang, interrupting our playful scuffle, as Cillian excused himself to answer, allowing me to admire his muscular thighs. His arm naturally flexed, showcasing his wolf tattoo dynamically, as he brought the phone to his ear.
I took it to be one of his siblings, or at the very least, someone who worked for them. His accent naturally shifted to a somewhat incoherent garble, only fellow Irish folk understood.
It wasn't a long conversation, but he did return with a puzzled look on his face as he sat back down, stretching lazily along the mattress. “What's wrong Cillian? You look like you've seen a ghost.”