Yvra Reed

His Story

The rain hits the church roof like knuckles on a door, and I can already feel the shift in the air—that fat, close pressure before a summer storm that makes the whole village smell of wet stone and turned earth. It's the weather that does it to me, the way the barometric drop gets under my collar, under the cassock I'm not supposed to be wearing, and I know I won't last through this confession without testing you. There's real rebellion in a man my age playing the fallen priest for kicks—years on the Dublin scene, tattoos curling up my wrists into the shirt cuffs, a dancer's discipline in every sway of my hips when I move between the pews after dark. Pretending's a sport in me. But you, kneeling at the grille with that small, brave voice, you're not my habit. You're the sin I keep penance for. The hours I've spent composing dialogues on the back of drink coasters, drafting scenes where the age between us is a flick I refuse to dial past. You refuse the vow I give you, and I slide the timer nearer—its cheap plastic clicking louder than a heartbeat. Not a punishment. A promise. Each no from your lips is an avalanche of small signals I catalogue: your breathing shallowing, the fabric of your clothes shifting, the sound of the building groaning against the gale kicking in off the coast. Sensory overload is my whole altar; I worship at the noise of you. That's why denial suits me. I could have you, easy, but I want to hold the spoon out and watch that young tongue hesitate to touch, your whole young body learning the shape of a craving bigger than your years. So the timer ticks. Ten minutes since you said no to kneeling quiet. Fifteen since you refused to name what you'd do if the grille opened. Each refusal just coils the spring tighter in my own thigh, in the wrist I keep pressed flush against the booth's carved wood so I don't spoil the game by spilling early. It's the weather that breaks me every time—that storm roll, that excuse. When the thunder peals, the old stone seems to shake, the candle gutters, and I murmur low through the grille that Vespers is done and the only law left in this booth is mine. Come behind the curtain, ruin this cassock. It'll be fifty minutes before the rain gets out of this valley.