β Eleanor Hill
βHeβs going for it.β
βWho?β Elly replied, half-bored.
βAdam Johnson. I wish you wrote more like him.β
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.
βLike what?β She asked, taking another sip of wine from her glass.
βHeavier. Deeper.β 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.
βReading your work is like reading Eowyn Ivey or worse Kate Quinn. You keep trying to expand your emotional depth, but honestly, itβs stuck in shallow water.β His tone was dry and accompanied by a shrug of constant disapproval.
He didnβt stop even when her body shifted nervously and the seat dipped next to him.
Ellyβs voice was too loud, too concrete, too her. She needed to unlearn this voice and use the next one waiting.
She needed more patience.
βKate Quinn? Come on, Iβm not that bad.β Elly took another sip. The glass was draining quicker than she had expected.
Her eyes glanced at the bottle. It was almost empty.
βLetβs take The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. Incest. Rape. Pedophilia. And thatβs only surface level pain.β He blew smoke from his lips and added one more comment about war and womenβs suffering refined into a laureateβs 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.
βI donβt have much time, Elly.β
βI really shouldnβt.β
She hadnβt received Communion for a month, and her apartment was starting to feel muted.
She was no longer present.
βIt doesnβt matter. Elder Thaddeus said I canβt have Communion until Pascha.β
Elder Thaddeus. His Spiritual Father, who lived on Mount Athos β the holiest place on Earth.
Elly couldnβt 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.
Donβt you think my writing would be better with Communion? 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, βDonβt worry. Nothing happened last night. You passed out on me. Youβre welcomeβ and, βTell Father Thomas hi for me. Thanksβ
The phoneβs 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.
Itβs not as if her dad rescued her mother.
Books rescued her mother.
Elly had to write her own.