[indent][indent][h1][color=#10100f]█   Eleanor Hill [/color][/h1]

“He’s going for it.”

“Who?” Elly replied, half-bored.

“Adam Johnson. I wish you wrote more like him.”

He spoke of authors the way other men spoke of football games. It made her sick, and other times, it made her swoon.

Until the icons on the wall interceded.

“Like what?” She asked, taking another sip of wine from her glass.

“Heavier. Deeper.” He took another huff from the paper, not bothering to even look at her. His body was stretched out on the navy sofa, taking more space than necessary.

 “Reading your work is like reading Eowyn Ivey or worse Kate Quinn. You keep trying to expand your emotional depth, but honestly, it’s stuck in shallow water.” His tone was dry and accompanied by a shrug of constant disapproval.

He didn’t stop even when her body shifted nervously and the seat dipped next to him.

Elly’s voice was too loud, too concrete, too her. She needed to unlearn this voice and use the next one waiting.

She needed more patience.

“Kate Quinn? Come on, I’m not that bad.” Elly took another sip. The glass was draining quicker than she had expected. 

Her eyes glanced at the bottle. It was almost empty. 

“Let’s take [i]The Bluest Eye[/i] by Toni Morrison. Incest. Rape. Pedophilia. And that’s only surface level pain.” He blew smoke from his lips and added one more comment about war and women’s suffering refined into a laureate’s work.

The conversation died with the smoke. It lingered in the air and slowly faded.

Elly watched the smoke. 

The ceiling fan spun circles. It was making a numb noise that reminded her of childhood.

A nervous hand ran through her dark hair, and she took the final sip from her glass.

The empty glass stared at her, and Laszlo Krasnahorkai knocked on her mind. A barbed loneliness entered. It reintroduced her to names and faces she could never ignore.

Tears began blurring her focus. Her lips pressed together, and she dabbed her eyes. 

He sat up, unzipping his pants.

“I don’t have much time, Elly.”

“I really shouldn’t.” 

She hadn’t received Communion for a month, and her apartment was starting to feel muted.

She was no longer present.

“It doesn’t matter. Elder Thaddeus said I can’t have Communion until Pascha.” 

Elder Thaddeus. His Spiritual Father, who lived on Mount Athos — the holiest place on Earth.

Elly couldn’t imagine having a monastic as a Spiritual Father. Let alone one on Mount Athos. Their penances were stricter.

All she had to do was tell him, no, and on Sunday, the veil would be lifted. 

[i]Don’t you think my writing would be better with Communion?[/i] She wanted to ask.

But, she never did.

And when she woke up in the morning, she was still on the couch. Curled into a ball. 

He was gone.

Morning light peeked through the window. It cast shadows on the floor and couch.

There were two text messages on her phone, “Don’t worry. Nothing happened last night. You passed out on me. You’re welcome” and, “Tell Father Thomas hi for me. Thanks”

The phone’s cracked screen went dark.

She closed her eyes and listened to the room breathe. 

There was a relief in her soul, but her heart ached. 

Was she Natasha, with a candle burning at her window? Waiting for patience to finally make an announcement? 

The thought haunted her before evaporating.

It’s not as if her dad rescued her mother.

Books rescued her mother.

Elly had to write her own. 
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