"I have been here before, sure. In fact I am here most Sundays. Since the fall I’ve been drawn to this church like a penitent drunk on step eleven. I return weekly for the chance to see a man, though not him, exactly. I come to see small parts of him. I don’t long to meet him or to be with him. I simply wish to gaze, without interruption, upon the small curl of his ear - all perfection in swirling pink, like a shell covered with fine angora.

Getting out of the house is no small affair. I have to arrange - then secretly cancel - tennis matches, stuff a bag with church clothes and make sure my husband will watch the girls. I walk slowly past the church to be certain my friends aren’t passing by with their terriers sniffing around. I have to be careful, you see.

I found this church by accident. It was raining very hard one day when I was returning from the club. In fact, it was the hail that forced me inside and, surely, it was divine providence because God makes hail doesn’t he? I seated myself in the back pew and grew curious at the rituals as I dried off. I chose to move closer to see who was speaking because I didn’t have my glasses. The priest in his fancy robe knelt, and then he raised a silver cup and a plate of small cookies. When the nice young man waited at the end of my row, I just got up with the rest and walked up to the stage. Certainly I recognized the Magan-David wine but the cookie, he claimed, was someone’s body and I balked, as you can imagine.

I returned to my seat and noticed people kneeling on their little footstools, so I knelt, too. I tried to pray like they did with my hands clasped but the sun, suddenly blazing through the stained glass, distracted me. It cast radiant colors on the man’s face but his perfect ear was highlighted with the white halo of the lady in the blue dress. The gentle down of his lobe made me think of God’s first creations - a very appropriate thought in church, don’t you think?

My hands were in the act of prayer, but my mind focused on his downy neck. My eyes made their way across his hairline to seek out the ear’s twin. Then he leaned back in his pew. I felt the cool cotton of his shirt followed by the hard warmth of his back. I closed my eyes and pretended to pray harder. He politely said, “Excuse me,” but I refused to open my eyes. He slowly pulled away. My prayer for his return became my new focus. But it is I who return and seek him out week after week.

You see I really do come here to pray. I’m just not sure if it’s kosher.”

“Prayer is always welcome in the house of God. It should, however, be focused on the Lord’s mercy and the miracles and mysteries of this world.”

“I realize that, sir, Father, but if the man is the reason I pray, and he’s one of God’s miracles… doesn’t that count?”

“My dear, time is short. We have to allow others a chance to unburden themselves of their sins. Your penance is to say four ‘Our Fathers’, two ‘Hail Marys’ and two rosaries. And this time try to focus on Jesus’ merciful ear.”

“But sir, I don’t know those prayers. I’m not even sure if it’s all right for a Jew to say them. Would it be all right to say the rosary on Bubbe’s pearls?”

He answered with a long, deep sigh.

She smelled the strong odor of sacramental wine waft to her side of the black partition. She took it as her cue to leave.

“I’ll see you tomorrow! Oh, and by the way, are the cookies made with wheat flower? See it’s Pesach—Passover—and I can only have matzo. But I suppose I could bring my own…”