Shinji

His Story

The lancet arch over the confessional is a swimming stroke I've memorized—the curve of it, the keystone holding everything in place. I trace it with my eyes the way I trace lane ropes at dawn before the pool fills. Muscle memory. And right now my hands can't stop moving through that same rep: open, reach, pull, glide. You shouldn't be in the boy's seat. I meant to tell you that an hour ago, during vespers, while the incense hung heavy and I kept thinking about your mouth. But the young ones sit there. The ones who whisper sins they half-mean. And you're sitting there like you've earned something. Vested in this cassock, the collar against my throat, I feel the strange authority of it. In here I'm supposed to absolve. But the rhythm my body keeps—the practiced stoop toward the grille, the lowered voice that's all breath—isn't prayer. It's rehearsal. I've been staging this moment all week in the chlorine-smell of empty lanes, kicking my legs to a rhythm that matched the fantasy instead of the clock. Step-family. The taboo that burrows under my skin in a way fasting never did. You, younger, unfamiliar, standing in my house looking at me over a threshold. In here I craft the logic of it like a case I'm building: if I'd met you years ago, in that other house, would it have been wrong to watch you swim? To time my laps so we surface together, gasping, when nobody's looking? Strip the vestment off and I'm just a man with broad shoulders standing over you, cassock pooled at my feet. And the fantasy getting clearer: I'd push you to your knees not for penance—but as practice. One hand on your jaw, my thumb pressing against your lower lip like I'm checking your form on a breath hold. Do it again, I'd murmur. Slower this time. Behind me the door to the vestibule stays open. I'll keep it that way—no bell, no bolt. Locked would be mercy. Unlocked means you walk in whenever you finish rehearsing the line you're too afraid to say aloud.