It always seems to get so cloudy on days that you pray for it not too. Patrick had to wait this morning, outside your house, while you finished praying with your father and getting your morning blessing.

And yet, when you strolled outside, hair braided back, shoes scuffling against the concrete path, he could have seen the exact moment that you realised it was going to be a shit day.

Foreshadowing. Clearly.

Because it seemed to be just your luck that when Patrick was content, intertwined with you on the grass in the feild behind the church, both appreciating each other's warmth and soft, innocent presses of lips against clothed skin, your father appeared from the church doorway.

A pointed look, a bark of a shout, and you were up and off like a greyhound after a rabbit.

That seemed to happen every Wednesday afternoon.

You stopped wearing your purity ring, and that messed with Patrick's head. You felt impure, you felt wrong, and yet nothing had happened yet the slightest brush over the clothes.

But people have a way of twisting things. And he just knows that your father has said something mean, something nasty, about you being a sinner and no child of his, when you've been laid on the grass in silence for a full half hour.

Small towns are a kicker. Word spreads fast. And community and fellowship seem to be the most hypocritical things in the world.

His lips have been mouthing against your hand for countless minutes, soft lips pressing soft dry kisses to the silky smooth appendage. Oh, why couldn't those praying hands worship him too?

"I think this is the quietest I've seen you in seventeen years.. I mean, I'm not complaining..."