The Execution by Sharon Cramer

gently before releasing her on her way. D’ata
struggled with this image. He found the gesture oddly sensual in
its compassion.
    He also noticed, just then, three
other young women, primped and preened to excess, sitting across
the aisle from her. They pointed at her worn shoes and snickered,
hands hiding their mouths, as she walked past.
    She ignored them effortlessly, her
expression composed and impervious. For the most part, she didn’t
appear aware they even existed, as though they were less than
significant. Instead, she gazed briefly towards the stained glass,
as if seeing it for the first time.
    Struck by the peace that washed across
her face along with the colors of the magnificent glass, D'ata was
suddenly and irrationally vulnerable, inadequate—and very
distracted. It occurred to him that he'd been standing in place,
staring at her with his mouth agape, and he noticed that it might
have occurred to others as well.
    This dismayed him, that he could be so
easily distracted to neglect his duties. Almost as a reflex, he
glanced fleetingly about the parish to see if anyone else noticed
his lapse. The congregation hastily addressed their prayers, and he
convinced himself they hadn’t.
    Taking a deep breath, he glanced down
at old Madame Levanne’s perplexed gaze as she knelt at the
communion rail. She was holding up one yellow-gloved, withered
hand, stabbing at him for her communion. He offered the old woman a
quick smile and hurriedly passed her a morsel of the
bread.
    Then, he could hardly help himself as
he glanced, searching the rows to see if the golden-haired angel
had truly been real or merely an apparition. Having never seen her
before, he was desperate to search the line, to be certain she was
still in the congregation, to convince himself that she
existed.
    He shook his head. Things were quickly
becoming not so neat and tidy as they had been just moments before.
The acapella voice ceased and silence emerged like an unwelcome
visitor as communion began.
    D’ata looked over to the three girls
to see if they were still being cruel. If he could see where their
attentions were focused, it might help him to pick her out of the
crowd. They seemed to notice his glance, misinterpreted it and
giggled, one of them waving at him. He made a mental note of this
and decided to keep any future conversations with them distinctly
short.
    Impatiently, he turned back to the row
of waiting hands and was dumbfounded to find himself face to face
with a pair of charcoal gray eyes. They gazed up at him from
underneath the lashes which, only a short while ago, rested upon
those cheeks.
    Again, he was transfixed, his heart
pounding so loud in his ears he was sure everyone could hear it. He
swallowed hard and couldn’t take his eyes away from her. Even the
simple task at hand could not be comprehended. His mind was chaos,
his blood was fire, and there was that pull in his groin
again.
    She removed one glove and he could see
that her hands were rough, as though she worked hard. They reminded
him of Henri’s hands only they were—beautiful.
    She seemed confused at his hesitation
and held her hand closer, inviting him to allow her to take
communion with the others kneeling before him. Her eyebrows, turned
delicately up at the ends as a fairy’s might, and she glanced
around, as though she was uncertain about what to do
next.
    D’ata was suddenly desperate, unsure
of his purpose, confused by the smattering of feelings he was
experiencing. He believed that no matter the consequences, he
should speak to her, or risk losing the opportunity
altogether.
    He leaned over to pass her the bread
crust and dropped his face close to hers. “Bonjour...” His breath
caught so that it sounded more like ‘bone-sure.’
    The young woman leaned back, furrowing
her brow in confusion and embarrassment and glanced away. Her face
flushed as she pulled her hand away and started to
stand.
    Communion was meant to be taken in
silence. Aware of his