The Unknown Beloved

by Amy Harmon

“Just because it doesn’t make sense to you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense,”

It was a good thing she did because he was drunk already. Years without kisses had made him a terrible lightweight.

God had drawn his finger down the center of his face, marking him.

He was no longer the sleeping beauty of the fairy tale but an eager participant. He kissed her with almost dreamlike ferocity, the hand in her hair keeping her face where he liked it, her chin tipped up to him.

“The truth is, the harder we are, the easier we shatter. It takes some softness to absorb life’s blows.”

To not believe in her would be like not believing in the sun. The sun simply was—it shined, it set, it rose, it waned—and it had no need to please or persuade.

“Humans are complex creatures. We want to belong, but we can’t stand to be the same. How in the world do you force equity on humankind, when we try at every turn to differentiate ourselves from each other?

“Are you good at everything, Michael?” she asked, as he swung into the steps with perfect ease, leading like he knew exactly where he was going. She had only to follow. “I’m not a particularly good seamstress, and I’d rather not do the Lindy Hop,” he murmured, his lips near her ear. She laughed, and her heart was as light as his feet.

He’d never been one to close his eyes, even when kissing, but his lids were so heavy and his heart so light, he couldn’t have lifted them if he tried.

“Why you, Michael? Because you make my heart do this.” She took his hand in both of hers and placed it in the valley between her breasts. It was a hummingbird in his palm, and he curled the pads of his fingers against the skin above the row of buttons,

He needed another kiss. Just one more, and he would stop. But one became another, and another.

The scent of her skin, so dear and so distinct, flooded him, and he stilled, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He wanted to pray. He wanted to confess. To moan the Rosary in humble adoration,

“I’m Catholic. Just like you. I don’t go to Mass. Don’t confess. But we need the saints—like Dani. Like St. Christopher. The world needs ’em. And maybe the world needs men like us too, Michael Malone. To save the saints and the angels from the demons.

Beware the lads from Kilgubbin. They’ll take what isn’t movin’. With a glint in their eyes and a glint of the knife, you can bet your life you’ll be losin’.