Halfway promised to god, you took your celibacy for a testdrive to the doorstep of the ex-communicant good girl... the one who never refused the mute plea in your eyes.
That night, you both downed glass after glass of sacramental merlot, and watched tendrils of myrrh waft through the air. No words; you fell asleep cuddled on her sofa, the rise and fall of her breath was a benediction.
Next week you'll baptize yourself between the thighs of a stripper you met at Jumbo's Clown Room. The good girl will imbibe Chardonnay, burn Nag Champa, and date a Unitarian.
As you pass each other on the street, you'd like to say hello, but the taste of ash clogs your mouths.