Resident devotion

He asked for forgiveness.

Not the way one usually does like with remorse or timing.

No, he said it the way some people say grace before a meal: more out of habit than humility. He said it when his hands were already well past the point of decency, when the room had long since given up pretending to be anything holy.

He said it again, slower this time. Measured. Like a man reading aloud from scripture he doesn’t quite believe in, but enjoys the sound of anyway.

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t hear, but because my throat was otherwise occupied—with breath, with his name.

He asked for forgiveness, but kept thrusting anyway.

Because what is forgiveness, really, if not another way of staying inside someone a little longer than you should?

And he did say my name. Eventually. Right there, pressed against my throat like a benediction.

And I—God forgive me—I took it.