It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 97: Chapter III

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The night of Detective Mooney's breakthrough just so happened to coincide with one of the coldest days in the month of January, which also happened to have been one of the worst days in Edward Towne's recent memory.

'No, not 'one of'!' he scoffed to Alan on their way to the bar, trudging through the piles of snow that had frozen across the sidewalk. 'It was the worst!' Poorly restrained problems were now front and center of Edward's mind.

It had all started off well enough in the warm bed of Liza Johnson, the morning, winter sun streaming across his face, the lavender and incensed scent of the bedroom a good reminder of how peaceful life could be outside of the confines of St. Gregory's. A life Edward Towne felt he had made for himself and himself alone. It was later in the morning than he had intended to wake for Liza had let him sleep. He wished she hadn't. He liked waking up with her, liked watching her dress for work, liked trying to delay her, liked especially when he was successful.

'You don't have to tell me all this,' said Alan with pursed lips. There are many things in life that one should remain ignorant of, he thought, and his Ed's morning routine with The Woman was head and shoulders above the rest.

How many times do you need to hear it? Not your Ed's anymore.

But Edward Towne was not concerned with the embarrassment of details, nor did he pay any mind to his friend's clear discomfiture and uneasiness with the subject. 'I don't like bein' there alone. It's like I'm a loafer.'

'Which foot?'

'Huh?'

'A loafer—'

'Huh?!'

'It's a shoe—'

'What are you talkin' about?'

'I was makin' a stupid joke—never mind!'

'It has nothin' to do with shoes.'

'I got that—'

'I'm sayin' I feel like a layabout.'

'I know what you're sayin'—'

'I mean, it's not like there's anythin' necessarily bad about bein' there alone. It's just...sometimes her roommate is there, and I dunno...It's weird.'

'She has a roommate?'

'Yeah, Amelia.'

'Who?'

'You met her.'

'No, I haven't.'

'You did.'

'I've never been to her apartment.'

'No, the friend at the bar.'

Alan had to think. There had been a lot of friends that night in Cambridge. None of them worth remembering.

That night. It felt like an age ago.

'The pug-faced one?'

'No, that's Carly.'

'The self-righteous one?'

'That's Lotti. Amelia, the—you know, curly hair, tanned...'

'The Portuguese chick?'

'She's Puerto Rican—.'

'Yeah, yeah...they're roommates?'