An hour passes; the sun is gone. Only the moon and flickering street lamps cast away shadow. Though, the shop's flood light joins in when a large enough insect flies by. Thea and Frank crack open another beer, their firsts empty and mingling with their seconds on the gravel between them.

Bamboo bats at one of the empty bottles. It topples and rolls, glass surface tinkling like a windchime. She darts into the darkness after it.

Letting thoughts go where they will, Thea watches the cat's silhouette prance and pounce about the lot. It was just a coincidence that she was Elia's, right? What about the aquarium? Me getting out unscathed: that couldn't be coincidence, too, could it?

She shakes the thoughts away. Of course it could be. Why bother looking out for me? What would He get? Too much planning to end up with me here, still questioning everything.

"You're being awfully quiet." Frank says.

"Hmm?"

There is no intent behind the noise: just something instinctive while her thoughts drag her on. That is, until something shifts at the edge of her vision and breaks her concentration. She cocks her head to catch it.

Leaning over the arm of his chair, Frank stares at her. "You're quiet."

She jumps. "Oh. O-oh, yeah. I guess I am."

"Well? Can you share this one?"

Thea runs her finger nails up and down her thigh. Bitten and uneven as they are, her cassock's fabric catches. It's an unpleasant sensation. Hairs stand on end and goosebumps crawl up her arms.

Can I?

Adding to the discomfort, Frank refuses to look away. His eyes pierce her through.

"Fine. C-can I— Did I ever tell you why I hate confession?" She says.

He relaxes into the back of his chair again. "No. You haven't."

"Can I now?"

He nods and tips his beer her way, prompting her on.

Her nerves aren't quite settled. She breathes in and out; once, twice, three times. It doesn't help. If anything, counting each breath just makes silence hang heavier. So she forces words past the knot in her throat. "Well... ahem — m-most of it was mundane. A lie about enjoying someone's cooking; shoplifting. But there were these questions that'd pop up. A woman a w-while ago asked: 'Do people who've never heard of Christ go to Heaven?' She told me what she thought. 'No.' They never knew Him; never accepted Him."

Frank scoffs. "Sounds like something a Baptist would think."

"R-right. And that's kind of what I mean. What makes us right? Baptists read the Bible. We read the Bible. We've got a few more books than them, but the Church has changed its mind on what makes up biblical canon before — and how to interpret it.

"But, that woman's question. I shared the Church's perspective and she accepted it j-just like— " Thea snaps. "— just like that. If I had to give her an answer a thousand years ago, it'd have been different, and she'd accept it just as easily. Will the Church's answer change in another thousand years? It bothers me. I'm supposed to guide people; h-help ease their minds.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"But, looking at all the modernish codes of canon law, we've got separate ones from 1917, 1983, 2094, 2133, and 2210. That's five major upheavals in three-hundred years. Am I just— just supposed to overlook how unsure that makes the Church seem?

"Like— like— I don't know. Let's take our powers, for instance. Canon law's only mentions of them are in the 2133 and 2210 codes. You know what they both say? Basically the opposite of each other.

"When powers became prevalent, Church leadership held the Third Vatican Council. Powers were still sparse, though. There weren't advocates amongst the assembly or any faction large enough for another schism. Most every bishop preached abolition. Not live and let live. Strict control; eradication; anything that'd keep the Church from changing. And that's exactly what they put into the 2133 code."

Mid sip, Frank jolts upright. A mixture of beer and spittle floods from his mouth. "Ah, shoot—" He swipes at dark, wet splotches trailing down the front of his habit, as if to bat the moisture away. Which — thanks to his power — he does. "Sorry, Thea. Didn't want to interrupt. Is that true, though? How'd the government let them?" He says.

"It's true. Everything back then—" A realization twists Thea's gut and cuts off her words. She slaps a hand over her mouth. "Oh goodness, I'm s-so sorry. I shouldn't be sharing this. Our deal—"

Frank settles back and shrugs. "No, no, no. Don't worry. Sharing history is different, isn't it? You go on ahead: it's not like they told me the whole deal when I became a monastic. It's fascinating. Honestly."

"Thanks. S-sorry."

With a snort and a shake of his head, he takes another sip. "Always apologizing."

Thea's spine shudders. The Church and its many past woes roll back from the tip of her tongue and she gulps them down. I already knew that. She thinks, fingers tightening around her bottle.

It's not anger. Still, it boils much the same. Inside her chest; inside her mind; through her fingers. To the tips of her hair, standing on end. There's something sick about it; ugly. Shame? Fear? Disgust?

She clutches at her chest, trying to quell the discomfort building inside. I knew that; I knew. Is he trying to make fun of me? Tell me to try harder?

There's another train of thought chugging in parallel. It's just my mind. He didn't mean anything by it. Ignore it. Do anything else, like—

Her mind is blank. No coals to burn to catch up to her runaway worries. So, harsh, hush words bully their way out of her mouth. "I don't want to apologize all the time." She says.

"Now, you know I don't think nothing of—"

"No! That's a lie! If you don't think about it, why say anything? And it's not like I don't know. Every time I apologize, I get stuck inside my head, chastising myself. And then you say something like that. I'm trying, Frank. What else am I supposed to do? I'm on medicine, I've got all these techniques the doctors taught me, but I'm still— I'm still— this. It doesn't matter. I feel sorry for everything I do, anything I say. I haven't made a single good decision since leaving the Church; each one has made the person that loves me worry. Why wouldn't I be sorry? Why shouldn't I apologize?"

Frank stares at her, shock upon his face as wide eyes and a slacken jaw.

It's terrifying. She can't feel it, so she has to think it — lost as the terror is amongst her already storming emotions. Disgust at herself; an honest fear mixed with the unfound. She suffers through shivers, through sweat, and through the words flowing from her mouth. She can't stop them. She doesn't want to stop them.

"Everything's always changing." She sputters. "Why couldn't I just keep sitting in my apartment, watching baseball? That's all I want. Not much to dream of; to ask for, I don't think. It feels like— like I've— ugh, I can't explain. M-maybe there's nothing I could have done. It feels like the world is constantly changing and I can't keep up. I'm too complacent; too powerless. Too something. I don't know, Frank." Shoulders racking, she cradles her head in her hands — what she can while still holding a bottle, at least. "I j-just don't k-know." She says.

In a flurry of motion, Frank fumbles after her hands and knocks the bottle free. Cinnamon-scented beer floods out. Down into the earth; into the writhing innards of worms buried underfoot. But, beyond an impulsive thought, Thea isn't worried about the worms right now.

Frank pulls her hands into his. They're warm. Rough — caked in dry clay and the wrinkles of age. Letting his head fall with a shake, he squeezes. "Sorry. Shouldn't have mentioned anything; after fifty years, you'd think I'd know better. Thanks for telling—"

"Hehhch! Eraow!"