Praying

By Elizabeth Monreal

I almost stop believing in God on a Tuesday. I’m in Alex’s car, his lips hovering just above mine and I think he’s finally going to kiss me. But he pulls away at the last second like it’s not killing him to put distance between us. His face flushes and his mouth melts into an upside-down smile. He’s usually so calculated and perfect, but I can tell that he loves me because he keeps making mistakes.

“Sorry.” He grips the steering wheel. “I…” He never knows what to say beyond that.

My boyfriend is an atheist, but he’s the closest thing to heaven I’ve ever known. He is wise like a proverb, good like a cross. His hair reminds me of Solomon’s gold. His hands are strong—what I imagine David’s to have been when he slayed Goliath. He smells faintly of anointing oil, an aroma that sweetens the air I breathe, so close and cramped in his little car. My boyfriend is an offering. The way he leaves everything for me reminds me of the shepherd who left the ninety-nine.

It’s our one-year anniversary and the most we’ve done is hold hands. I slide my fingers down his palm and through the spaces between his. “It’s okay.” I adjust my seatbelt and break the silence with our favorite inside joke. “Are you sure you’re not a Christian?”

I know he loves me because he laughs like he hasn’t heard it a hundred times already. We talk about our future. He wants to get married at the altar one day, hopes our kids have faith as strong as mine. But on days like this, sinning is all I think about. No other man has been good enough, but Alex is what God had in mind when He made me.

My last prayer before renouncing my faith is a heathen’s plea.

You understand me, right?

Things don’t happen the way I expect them to. Thunder doesn’t strike me down. The earth doesn’t open and swallow me up. I inch closer to Alex, but the only resistance I’m met with is the gray worn-out seatbelt digging into my chest, holding me back from eternal damnation.

I unbuckle myself. It’s the last nail I need to crucify my religion once and for all.

“What are you doing?” Alex is frozen like a pillar of salt, like he has forgotten everything about how love works for sinners.

“Today’s special, right? I was thinking, what if…” I close my eyes and kiss him. The moment I rip the bandaid of conviction off the cut on my arm, my life becomes a sigh.

Alex drops his hand from the steering wheel and holds his face in disbelief. “You…just kissed me…”

I’m so close to him I can feel the shift in his breathing on my forehead. My hands snake themselves down to undo the button of my jeans.

“Baby, what are you doing?” And I know he loves me because when he sees that I don’t have the words to explain, he spares me the embarrassment of searching for them. He sets his hand on top of mine and I melt. Even with my jeans still on and my hands under his, this is the closest we’ve been.

My voice shakes when I say “I thought we could…you know…”

He smiles his adorable upside-down smile and places his hand on my chest, but it’s not what I hoped. Instead, he finds my cross necklace and holds the crucifix. “You don’t know how much I want to say yes to you, angel.” He groans softly. “But I can’t.”

The way he folds his arms across the steering wheel to rest his head reminds me of Jesus praying in Gethsemane. Submissive and suffering and human. God weeping.

Alex’s eyes are glassy when they finally meet mine again, but smiles. “I would never forgive myself if I made you sacrifice your morals for my selfish desires.”

And I know he loves me because he takes my hand, bows his head, and prays for strength just before he drives me home.

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Elizabeth Monreal is a young Mexican-American writer living in Las Vegas. Find more of her work at elizabethmonreal.com

Instagram: @e.monreal_

Twitter/X: @emonrealcon