Sunday Morning
By: Amanda Vandermolen

My legs have been crossed for forty-
five minutes now, thighs
moist in black polyester—
inviting all of the church spotlights
above the front row. Some guy
 
I baptized last week wanted
his daughter to sing today—eight or nine,
she starts to screech Holy! Holy! Holy!
I strain a pleased look, I can feel my mouth
grow weak, as if I am chewing on
 
Ms. Smith’s pot roast from last
weeks luncheon—still.
For a moment I try to envision my tie—
Is it on correctly? Did Cora put
it on right after we met in the storage closet?
 
My wife put it on this morning before
the service. She might notice that someone
else had tended to my tie.
I peak at Cora by the pulpit. Her pantyhose
fraying at her thin, broomstick ankles. Skirt
 
pushed up from the foreplay. Her hair
was much more vibrant than my wife’s—
like a brand new copper teakettle in the light.
Was my chest hair not so colorful? Maybe
a hazed over grey like the steel handicap
 
bars that line the church steps. She would not
have noticed—my wife has not noticed in 35 years.
My mouth is getting dry and the piano’s
tuning is making me nervous. Thank
the Lord the girl is finished singing!
 
I walk up to the pulpit where
Cora is still standing—making sure to miss
all the plants brought in by Mr. Kennedy
from his dead wife’s garden.
Cora looks at me. Damn it
 
I knew she would give me that
stare—a forbidden look
not even my wife gives me. A look
that wolves give to the flock
of sheep just before they decide to go in
 
for the kill.
I open my bible,
notes in red ink
bold on the page marked
with the word “adultery.”