it. Maybe if she paid in advance online.
Once the man was seated and finished with the perfunctory mumblings associated with this sort of ritual, he addressed Zoe:
“Are you troubled my child?”
Her initial impulse nearly caused a question to form on her lips: How many hours do you have?
And he had asked in unaccented English. So instead she whispered:
“Inglese…difficile” And more faintly still, wanting him closer to the screen. “Italiano perfavore.”
Zoe heard him shift his weight, saw a shadow come more fully across the intricate woodwork. She smelled wine and garlic. Lingerings from last evening’s meal.
Zoe made muffled noises with her mouth and throat that might have sounded like sobbing. She couldn’t remember crying at anytime in her life. This troubled her, but never interfered. And not quite as dramatically as it had once troubled the three late shrinks with whom she’d discussed the issue. Another story. Another day.
The sound of the priest leaning closer. Assuring her that Jesus had died for our sins, and…
She had an entire manifesto on the tip of her tongue. A litany. How the man had sexually exploited young men who had looked up to him in a South Boston parish. Now over twenty-five years ago. How she knew it must have continued.
But what was the use? She was not here to offer her opinions on orthoidoxy or hypocracy. She was a girl with a job to do.
Zoe withdrew the impossibly long hypodermic needle and held it steadily next to the screen. Just business. Apparent heart attack. In a man of 72, not unheard of. Used the same method countless times. But against her better judgment, she whispered, now in English:
“If you hadn’t put on the habit before you fucked them, you still would be dead. But you ruined every Sally Fields movie ever made.
“ Arrivederci. ”
###
@ZoeScarlatti
Episode Three drops February 15, 2015
Once the man was seated and finished with the perfunctory mumblings associated with this sort of ritual, he addressed Zoe:
“Are you troubled my child?”
Her initial impulse nearly caused a question to form on her lips: How many hours do you have?
And he had asked in unaccented English. So instead she whispered:
“Inglese…difficile” And more faintly still, wanting him closer to the screen. “Italiano perfavore.”
Zoe heard him shift his weight, saw a shadow come more fully across the intricate woodwork. She smelled wine and garlic. Lingerings from last evening’s meal.
Zoe made muffled noises with her mouth and throat that might have sounded like sobbing. She couldn’t remember crying at anytime in her life. This troubled her, but never interfered. And not quite as dramatically as it had once troubled the three late shrinks with whom she’d discussed the issue. Another story. Another day.
The sound of the priest leaning closer. Assuring her that Jesus had died for our sins, and…
She had an entire manifesto on the tip of her tongue. A litany. How the man had sexually exploited young men who had looked up to him in a South Boston parish. Now over twenty-five years ago. How she knew it must have continued.
But what was the use? She was not here to offer her opinions on orthoidoxy or hypocracy. She was a girl with a job to do.
Zoe withdrew the impossibly long hypodermic needle and held it steadily next to the screen. Just business. Apparent heart attack. In a man of 72, not unheard of. Used the same method countless times. But against her better judgment, she whispered, now in English:
“If you hadn’t put on the habit before you fucked them, you still would be dead. But you ruined every Sally Fields movie ever made.
“ Arrivederci. ”
###
@ZoeScarlatti
Episode Three drops February 15, 2015
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