Sister Jude's Demons

A Result

The several silent moments that had passed without interruption began to thicken the air. Jude briefly wondered if she had said too much, if she had overwhelmed the Monsignor with her tales of woe. But her worry was short-lived, as her racing, drunken mind sped her onto other paths of conversation.

The Sister turned her head to look Timothy in the eye, however as she did so, she noticed his eyes were distracted by the few hints of femininity she could do nothing about. He gazed, still, in curious wonder, at her hair. She smirked, and was about to mock him, when she was suddenly stopped by the overpowering glow of happiness that spread through her body. She enjoyed being regarded in this way. She liked when any man found her distractingly interesting, but when this man, in particular found himself bending to her unarguably attractive features, she found herself basking in his gaze, enjoying the ever growing danger and excitement of her predicament. Enjoying the possibilities that flashed through her intoxicated mind. Though alcohol was an easy mask to hide behind, Jude knew that even sober, she would have felt the same pang of excitement in her chest; that something she had, the way she looked, could have pleased him gave her great satisfaction.

"You are distracted, Father," she finally questioned. Timothy quickly turned his focus back to Jude's face and replaced his hands on his lap, awkwardly.

"Apples," he murmured. Jude's eyes begged for an elaboration. "Your hair, it smells of apples." She nodded, a wry smile spreading across her lips. She ran her fingers through the light, unkempt curls, unwittingly releasing another wave of delectable fruits into the air. "Forgive me," the Monsignor suddenly said, catching himself in the most unsavoury of acts. He stood up instinctively and began to edge away from the bed. Jude could see, for perhaps the first time, the battle for power between the man and the man of God, and was relieved to know that it didn't only occur within herself.

"There's nothing to forgive, Monsignor. Stay." The Sister rose from the bed and took a step towards Timothy, who was edging to the door, his hands rubbing into one another, anxiously.

"Sister, it's important to remind ourselves of our positions here. Regardless of our friendship, I think it a little improper that I stay." Jude stopped and re-evaluated the situation, now aware of which man had won control of the Monsignor's impulses. He was God's man once again, but even so she couldn't forget the moment of weakness he had revealed. He was fascinated. He was interested, if only for a minute. Did that mean everything she hoped it did? Did she have a chance of seducing him as she had done in her dreams?

"But you've stayed this long, Timothy. You've listened to me open myself to you. You were the epitome of good. We've done nothing wrong; nothing you couldn't confess to God. Nothing God Himself wouldn't praise you for. Stay. Please stay with me." Jude walked slowly but with purpose, close enough to touch Timothy's hand. She smiled, her eyes full of hope, as she cupped his hand in hers. She gently pulled him back to the bed, her heart pounding with every step, and he followed dutifully, caught in the scent of her hair. "Besides, there's so much I want to know," she continued. "I have so many questions I need you to answer."

The pair retook their positions on the bed, only Jude inched closer and turned her body to face her challenge. She kept Timothy's hand cupped in hers. "Like, how does it feel when I touch your skin like this?" She tilted her head slightly as she looked up at him, and he could see in her eyes the serious passion, the want for him to reply with honesty. But he could hear God's voice surrounding him and panic bled across his skin.

"Jude, I..." he fidgeted in his place. Jude played with the Monsignor's fingers but held a steady grip. She took his right hand pulled it up towards her face, spreading the fingers, and then pushed it, with hardly any force, through her hair.