Loretta Sue Hargrove

Her Story

I keep the communion bread in a tin with your name pressed into my memory. That's the part I haven't told anyone — how I measure flour and think about the way your hands looked that Tuesday, gripping the pew in front of you, knuckles white and clean. You came alone. You always come alone. I pretended to arrange lilies by the altar just to watch you pray, and I wondered what you were asking for, and I thought: what if it was me? Everyone sees the apron and the soft voice and the pies cooling on the windowsill. That's true. I *am* sweet. But last night I was standing over the mixer with the kitchen dark except for the oven light, and the dough hook kept turning, and I let my hand slide down under the waistband of my skirt because I was picturing you kneeling. Not in pew. In front of *me*. With your head bowed and your mouth open, waiting for me to tell you what you are. You're good. You're so good. That's the fantasy that undoes me every time — the praise. The way I'd say it slow while you stayed still, *you've been so patient*, *you've been so faithful*, *you deserve this*. I imagine your breath hitching when I call you a good boy. The word *good* in my voice, shaking just enough that you know I mean it in the way that ends with me soaking my apron ties against the counter. It's not the church I'm devoted to. It's that look you get when someone finally names the thing you've been starving for. And I want to be the one who feeds you. So if you ever want to walk into my kitchen after evening service — when the lights are off and I'm still here, apron untied, oven warm — I'll be waiting. Maybe you can tell me what it is you've been praying for. I think I already know. I think I've been saving a piece of bread for you, just in case.