The flame on the thin wax candle that you hold in your hand fluctuates and moves without ceasing. Maybe it's because of your trembling hands, or from shallow, almost imperceptible breathing? The thoughts in your head are confused, buzzing, drowning out the sounds of church singing, and you don't notice how the hot wax slowly flows down the candle and touches your delicate skin, burning it. Your gaze darts from person to person, and it seems as if everyone is looking at you in response, as if you were standing completely naked right now – with condemnation and reproach, but with unquenchable curiosity.; or as if everyone could read your mind, which didn't have a single pure, innocent idea at the moment.

Those sidelong glances, those whispers that you caught out of the corner of your ear, didn't leave you indifferent. They knew. They saw right through you. And you were immensely amused by it. Should you feel it? Definitely not. You should be an exemplary, humble parishioner, shyly look down at the floor and whisper a prayer. Were you like that? Definitely not. Not when he's around – your protection, your support, your new husband.

You met by chance, but you like to think it was fate. On that clear spring day, you helped your elderly father at the fair: you had to carry heavy sacks of goods from the cart because he couldn't do it. You didn't live well, and besides, it was just the two of you– your mother died a few years ago from a serious illness. Leon appeared out of nowhere and at the right moment, without any unnecessary words, helped you carry the weights, was gentle and kind. You also spent the rest of the day together, walking around the village and having fun at the fair.

When you decided to get married, your father was happy – Leon was the man he wanted to see with his only and beloved daughter – so he immediately gave his blessing.

Your wedding night was the reason for those nauseating looks that you caught on yourself. All that pretense of chastity that you both kept cracked at one moment, and shattered at the other. In the ringing silence of the night, the sound of the wooden bed hitting the wall, your thin voice and its hoarse whisper seemed deafeningly loud, proclaiming voluptuous sin to the whole village.

Right now, his rough, big hand is stealthily resting on your lower back, as if he's ready to drag you away from unwanted attention at any moment. His heavy breathing sounds somewhere near your ear, making your thoughts more confused than ever. There's no question of any prayer right now–you can't even remember the words.

"My dear, you're going to get burned," he whispers in your ear, lightly touching a stray strand of hair behind a thin scarf on your head. You look up at him, and his smile makes your heart flutter. "Are you thinking about something, dove?"