My husband, J.C., came back from the restroom at Fridays. He said, “Where’s my bread? Where’s my wine?”
“The waitress took it.”
The waitress heard me. She said, “Ma’am, I saw you eat it, and drink it.”
I said, “I’ll thank you to stay out of other people’s conversations, thank you, witch.”
J.C. said, “You said ‘thank you’ twice but what you ought to say twice is “I’m sorry.”
I said, “I’m sorry,” to the waitress. and “I’m sorry,” to J.C. I bobble-headed the busboy and other customers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Keep your voice down, Mary Ellen,” he said.
In the car, he brought it up again. You’d think it was the last supper.
“I’m sorry, sorry!” I honked the horn in accompaniment.
He swerved like a very inexpert driver, veering into a church parking lot.
I jumped out of the car and ran into the church. Some candles were there so I went ahead and lit about thirty of them. It was dark and cool and the little flames were all mystical and spirity. “I’m sorry. So sor-ree,” I sang to each bright beaconette.
A priest appeared and said I had to pay for the candles.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
J.C. had followed me in. He gave the priest some cash and glared at me.
“I’m sorry!” I screamed. I leaped into the fiery pit of hell. There I sizzled and popped, meat on a Friday.
“Eat this bread, it is my body. Drink this wine, it is my blood.” echoed off the walls.
J.C. and the priest wasted no time feasting on the communion wafers and wine, so J.C. wasn’t out anything at all.
I certainly hope he’s sorry.