Swearing on SundayMature

Don't mind me, I'm just a bit angsty sometimes.

After reading this, I would ask you to please read the author guidance.

He already knows what she's done; the way her belly, swollen with life, juts out from her otherwise slim body proves she's been doing more than just studying on weekends. Her lipstick is hastily applied, and her hair is pulled back into a low, unassuming ponytail at the nape of her neck.

He gestures for her to step inside his office. She hesitates, hand poised just above the perfectly polished doorknob. The black fingernail polish she's wearing is chipped.

"Come on in," he says, pauses, tries to remember her name. "Come in, Lynda."

She enters. Sits. Doesn't take her coat off. Maybe she isn't planning on staying for very long. Her dark brown eyes dart around the room, nervously taking role call of everything in the room.

Open door to make an easy escape? Present.

Box of Kleenexes to dry her tears with? Present.

Bible with a watered-down translation so you don't feel too bad about yourself (as long as the only things you're doing are being proud, lusting without action, obsessing over money, and shunning real sinners)? Present.

He watches as she runs a hand without a ring over her midsection, and he wonders if she's regretting the choices she's made. The child she's carrying is enough to make the righteous point fingers at her with one holier-than-thou glance of the eyes and the sanctuary buzz with speculation over who got good little Lynda pregnant.

She leans forward, tears in her eyes. "I have to confess something," she whispers, voice shaking, that glaringly ringless hand of hers reaching up to wipe the tears away before they even fall. "I've sinned." She covers her face. "Oh, God, I don't know what to do."

He waits, and it's hard for him not to berate her, to list all the things she's done wrong and how she can go about fixing them all (starting with wearing a dress with a neckline that doesn't plunge so low). She looks up, and he can see by the look in her eyes that she knows he's silently evaluating her sinfulness.

The ticking of the clock signals that five minutes have passed in this awkward silence.

He glances at his calendar. She notices that he's already checking for his next appointment. "What can I help you with?" he finally asks, seeing that she's not going to take the initiative to tell him without a little prodding.

Her eyes become vacant. There's no way he'll accept her with - what do they call it? - "the Love of Christ." All he sees when he looks at her is a one-night-fling gone wrong.

"It's...not a big deal." She sees the indignation in his eyes, as though he's asking how dare she call sex out of wedlock "not a big deal." She takes a deep breath. Swallows. "It's just...I have a problem with swearing. Even on Sundays."

The End

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