Through the fish-eye peep hole, the old woman looked like my great
grandma, with skin white and soft as bread dough, lightly powdered with
flour or talc, just like other great grandmas, and when I opened the
door she smelled like her, too, rubbed down in Icy-Hot and perfumed
with cloves and vanilla.

From her purse she pulled a small book with a green cover and leafed
through tissue-thin pages until the Lord guided her finger to a verse
appropriate for the moment. My favorite passage, she said.

II.

Nikki and Denise didn’t look suspicious until they introduced each
other, and, even then, at first, I didn’t get the hint. I hoped that
they were thinking about proposing a threesome, or asking if I would
like to watch and jack-off while Nikki fucked Denise in the ass with a
strap-on dildo, and, in my mind, my letter to Penthouse Forum had
already been typed, printed, mailed out, and published.

It was December in Minnesota, and they were bundled up under layers of
fleece, corduroy, and wool. They left much to the imagination, except
for Nikki’s voice and Denise’s bifocals, and I thought of how the
lenses of Denise’s glasses would steam when she came out of the cold
and into my bedroom, how she would take them off to see, revealing big,
feline eyes. Nikki asked if she could take a minute of my time, as well as
my hand, then held them both in the palm of her wool glove and
prayed for my salvation. On a scale from one to ten, how close are you
to Jesus? she asked.

I thought about my drive to Madison, choosing death for my first
unborn, and how seven years later Christ claimed a couple for himself,
making my girlfriend miscarry, twice. I remembered sitting in the car,
crying, asking why I was being punished. I punched the steering column
until I broke three knuckles. The keychain that hung from the ignition
read WWJD. I wished I could have been the one to drive nails through
his hands.

Four and three quarters, I said.

III.

Her favorite passage, she called it, holding the book open, reading
aloud, allowing me the pleasure to follow along as the white tip of her
gloved finger traced the lines.

It was faith, a characteristic I lacked, no matter how badly I wanted
it, and she wore it like the mole on her left earlobe.  I stepped out
into the hallway and closed the door behind me.