The sunlight played over them, sweet, drowsy, bathing them with an incandescent warmth that saturated their skin and blazed on the crisp whiteness of the sheets. The tiniest breeze crept in, teasing the curtains into life and blowing a few ephemeral strands of her hair across her face. Somewhere in the distance, wind chimes rang softly, pealing through the air in sweet counterpoint to the acrimonious quarreling of jays in the branches below. Everything in the small room—a latticed white wicker chair in the corner, the pearly dresser, the glass panes of framed pictures—reflected that perfect contentment in the delicate brilliance of the morning sun.

Another breath of wind crept in, and a strand of hair fell lightly across her eyes. She woke, blinking, languid and groggy. For a moment she braced herself to rise; then, remembering, she made a little contented noise and snuggled back into the man beside her, breathing in his scent and splaying her arm across his chest. At the motion he too stirred a little, instinctively wrapping her closer in his embrace. “Morning, love.”

She rubbed her cheek against the hard plane of his chest. “Morning, yourself,” she said sleepily, draping a leg across his and savoring the perfectness of how they fit together, the absolute rightness and security waking in his arms gave her. Equally content, he bent his head to press his lips to her hair, then subsided, his hand gently stroking her back.

She had almost fallen back asleep again when he gave a little huffed snort, as of realization, and stirred underneath her. “Ach. Love, you have to move. I have to get up.”

She mumbled an incoherent protest, shutting her eyes against the sun’s persistent rays. “Sunday,” she finally managed, blearily.

“Church.”

She managed to lift her head enough to see the clock on the bedside table, then made a happy noise and let her head drop again. “Not for another two hours. We can stay like this a little longer.” She nuzzled against him, eliciting a soft rumble of laughter.

“Yeah, I know. But I have to go in early, help them set up, remember?” Gently, he started to move, and with a grumble she withdrew her arm and rolled away from his side. “Of course. I remember. Go on, go on.” She gave a great, jaw-cracking yawn, eyeing him as he got off and headed across the room. “I’ll just get myself a little more beauty sleep.”

He smiled at her, then disappeared into the bathroom. Watching him go, she burrowed back into the bedclothes, letting her lids fall shut. Soon enough, she drifted off to sleep again.

She woke lightly a few minutes later when her husband emerged, freshly showered, and began dressing. Listening as he made all manner of noise, shutting drawers, jangling his belt, whistling, she sighed in defeat and began to extricate herself from the various sheets. She might as well get up herself, now.

She’d just managed to sit up a little, blinking, when she heard her husband say, ever so casually, “You should come with me, today.”

Instantly she was all too awake. “Honey, we’ve talked about this.” She hesitated, trying to find the right words, the ones that wouldn’t set him off. “It’s… You know I don’t…”

He sighed and straightened, not looking at her. “I know. And I know your reasons. It’s foolish, love; just silliness and chicanery.”

She felt anger suffuse her breast, and with difficulty she tamped down on a simultaneous wave of sorrow. The day had started so beautifully, and now this, already… Were they to have this battle every Sunday of their lives? “Whether you think it’s silly or not,” she said wearily, for what felt like the thousandth time, “it’s what I believe. And I won’t compromise that, ever, despite how much I love you.”

Now he looked guilty. “You know I’m not asking you to… I don’t want…” He ran a hand through his unruly hair and dropped his gaze. “I only ask you to come because I do love you so much.”

A little ripple of guilt went through her, deliciously painful, but she suppressed it. He’d brought it up, again, despite knowing her answer, if not understanding it. For how could she explain to him that, for her, divinity was the blue of his eyes, piety the passage of breath from her lips to his, sanctity where his fingers brushed and sin his absence? He would consider it blasphemy, but all of his faith she would ever know was the guiding force of the constellations his hands drew on her skin.

She forced the words out. “I know.”

There was a little silence, and then he continued getting dressed as she remained seated on the edge of the bed, trying to think of nothing. The sunlight washed over her, caressing her limbs, and when he looked at her she seemed alight as from an inner fire, as though she were the source of the room’s radiance.

At last he finished and came over to her. “I’m gonna leave, honey.”

She didn’t look up. “Alright.”

He paused; then, abruptly, he reached out to catch her hands, and she instinctively took them—only to recoil in sudden blinding horror. His hands, and now hers, were sticky, coated with blood. She looked up, horrified, and saw that he was drenched in it, his freshly showered hair matted and his nicest Sunday suit crimson with it. Rivulets dripped down his face, fell from his eyes, leaked from his ears and under his nails and seeped from the soles of his dress shoes. His mouth parted, just slightly, and the blood gushed from it, falling out in a torrent to stain the pristine carpeting around him. With a scream, she threw herself away from him, sobbing in terror.

“Love! Honey, what’s wrong?”

His voice, terrified and urgent, made her head snap up, sharply. There he was, hair still damp from the shower, clothes gleaming in the sunshine, not a drop of blood on him.

The pit of her stomach dropped out, and for a moment she truly thought she was going to be ill. The blood…she knew what she had seen. Oh, God, she knew. His faith…and hers. Chicanery. It was impossible to breathe.

“I saw,” she began, gasping, then stopped, deciding to phrase it more tactfully. “Or—I thought I saw—”

His face instantly clouded over, and she knew an argument was forthcoming, so she rushed the words out of her mouth. “Oh, love, you can’t go today, you can’t! I know, I saw— on the way there, there will be some kind of accident, and you’ll—”

He cut her off. “Don’t.” He straightened up, stiffly, a cold expression in his eyes. “I don’t want to hear it. I won’t hear it.”

She felt as though she should be sobbing, but she was too stricken for tears. “No, you have to listen me—please! Just this once, don’t go—stay home with me, and it will all be alright—”

“No.” Expression terribly sad, he backed away from his trembling wife and the horrible everything he heard in her words. “No. I can’t.” There was a little hush, then he spoke again, hoarsely. “Just as you…can’t compromise what you are…neither can I.” He waited a moment, trying to see if she understood, then shook his head and drew away. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

She watched him go through eyes filmed with red. She’d known he wouldn’t believe her, known he’d still go. It was useless. Let him go, then. If that was truly the answer to the never-ending debate…

She clenched her hands, then looked down at them. They were still covered in dried blood, like ashes.

He’d reached the door by the time she spoke. “Wait!”

He turned, face colder still, obviously thinking she meant to plead again. “What?”

She looked out the window, at the glorious day outside, at the bed they shared together, at her hands, then finally back at the man she loved, and in the depths of his sapphirine eyes she made her choice. “Give me a minute,” she whispered. “I’ll…go with you today.”

His answering smile was like the dawn.

© Copyright 2010 Laura Gowans