* (UN)HOLY.

location : a coffee shop in queens .

the hole in the wall that hawked the caffeinated equivalent of road tar was a neutral zone, marlon thought, despite its proximity to the field office. well — it was closer to neutral than the chelsea hotel's starched linens, zahira's dark hair splayed across an ivory backdrop. it was closer to neutral than the backseat of his 1991 honda accord, the left back door so rusted out that it was welded shut, his own handprint on the fogged - out glass. he'd purposely left his files in the locked drawer of his desk, hovering an ominous 20 floors in the air above them, two blocks south — but his thoughts kept returning to them nonetheless. " you going home for thanksgiving? " this, after the ten minute silence of his own creation, brown eyes glued to a similar - hued coffee ring on the laminate table surface that forcibly separates them. he rips a straw wrapper into thin ribbons, curling them around dry knuckles. saying nothing, even when he speaks.

⠀*⠀ 𝚣𝚊𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 any frontier unexplored — except, of course, when it was a frontier like this. perched in the booth like it is two seconds away from lighting on fire under her ass, she's picturesque even with her expression bordering on agony. they both know she prefers ecstasy instead; she can't fathom why they're playing this game when they're running ( as always ) on borrowed time. she picks a fry off her plate, more than content to let the discomfort fester as she plays with food she has no intention to eat. ( she hates it when anyone gets too comfortable: marlon is no exception. ) " no, " she says. one singular word yet it conveys a bucketload of disdain. her head tilts. she reaches for the straw wrapper he's curling around his knuckles, pictures his hand splayed out over her instead. ( she never thought she would miss that damn accord of his: anywhere is better than a diner in queens. )

⠀ ⠀ " can we skip the small talk? i have a meeting at —" she pauses, checking her watch. eyes return to him with predatory interest. " four. is your honda parked outside? "

⠀#⠀  ACHING    FOR    GUIDANCE,    prayers    are    few    and    far    between.    how    many    nights    since    last    confession    ?    rosary    𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃    on    skin    and    brush    off   the ashes    of    white    powder    off    leather  -  bound    bible,    (    the    pious    question    a    mere    set    up    to    a    macabre    joke:    there    simply    ain’t    enough    graves    to    count    ‘em    all,    father.    )    cigarette    dangles    between    closed    lips    and    brought    to    life    by    the    flame    of    a    lit    candle,    plucked    from    operatic    display.    legs    meticulously    cross    over,    sat    by    the    edge    of    front    row    pew,    (    low    chuckle    reverberates    as    instincts    cry    beneath    war  -  torn    skin.    some    doomed    kismet    this    is    !    )    “    y’know,    it’s    rude    to    stare.    ”    raven    gaze    still    spired    on    the    divine    scene    in    front,    smoke    unfurls    in    tandem    with    their    lazy    smile,    “    especially    in    the    house    of    the    lord,    no    less.    could    take    your    eyes  . . .   𝐀𝐒    𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.    ”

⠀*⠀ 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 convince a consummate sinner to enter the hallowed halls of a church once more? zahira would imagine that it went something like this: a former preacher's daughter and a rumored weapon walk into a church. only one of them walks out. she wouldn't tell helena this yet, but she reckoned that would be her. no matter what had happened in her past: zahira was always the losing dog that she bet upon. the clicking sound as her recorder is switched on is disguised by low, wailing hymnals.

⠀ zahira meets helena's eyes. she's wearing a poor imitation of a sweet smile, one leg folding over the other as she makes herself comfortable. ( it is all a guise, of course. she hasn't been comfortable in a church in years. flashbacks of religious fervour and a hand in the flaxen hair of a peer, red lips pressed to ear - whispering things she was sure she'd want to hear. )

⠀ she wonders if she'll be able to tell helena exactly what they'll want to hear. " can i bum a smoke? " she asks, almost impatient, head canting to the side. she's not sweet in her request. if helena is smoking in church, she wants to be too. " i'll say a couple of hail maries for staring at one of the best-dressed people in church. " her lips curve up into a smile. " aside from myself, of course."