I can feel it fluttering, like a butterfly. Diana Dixon I didn’t watch while Brian scrubbed pink lipstick off his hands. It wouldn’t come off easily—for either of us. My faith wanted to believe all things, to bear all things, but my mind wasn’t having it as he arranged his shirt and wiped his hands before approaching the office where I’d retreated. “Come in.” I sounded cold, like Joyce before an expulsion. Brian inched toward me, pushing around the kiln to get to my desk. “What’re you reading?” “The usual.” I held up a squat paperback with a neon pink cover titled The Message. He groaned. He probably wondered how many Bibles one woman needed. From the way my hands trembled as I turned the pages, maybe I needed a few more. Brian kneeled beside my desk. “That wasn’t what you think. She came in and jumped all over me . . . At first I thought it was you—” My lips tightened into a smile. A fake one.
