Once Brielle had exhausted all other options, she went to the priest. The church doors were locked so she went to his house (no place was far, in town).

The priest was in his fifties. He was aging poorly, melting as if he was rotting from inside out. He considered her there at his doorstep. The priest was in his robe. He invited her in. Brielle was surprised by the simple, minimalist layout. Humble, yet elegant. The priest had good taste.

“Want anything to drink? Water? Soda? Juice?” the priest said.

“Got anything stronger?” Brielle said because she had heard it said in movies.

The priest nodded seriously. He opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out a horizontal bottle of scotch.

“Let’s open it,” the priest said, smiling.

The priest poured two fingers of scotch into two glasses. The priest handed her a glass and then sat in the other chair.

“Cheers.”

They drank. The priest waited for her to speak.

“I am cursed,” Brielle finally said, “I don’t believe in curses. I don’t believe in the supernatural. I don’t believe in God. I believe in logic. I believe in what’s rational. Science.”

“But you are cursed,” the priest said, cutting through.

“Yes. I feel misery. My thoughts are negative. My mind criticizes me from the moment I wake up, until the moment I go to sleep. It’s chemical, right? So, I go to therapy, for years. Think of the money I’ve spent on therapy and drugs. I’ve ruined my body with the drugs. The side effects. They have you change the drugs when the drugs don’t work. Up the dosage. Lower the dosage. I can’t eat, then I eat too much. I lose my sex drive. I’m sleepy all the time, or I am awake for days, manic, anxious. So, I try and work out because that’s the other thing they tell you to do. I take a chunk out of every single day to exercise, run, lift weights. Guess what, it doesn’t work. When I look around at the gym all I see are other people, oblivious, chasing highs. Desperate, like me, but somehow sadder. Pushing themselves to grotesque extremes.”

“Brielle,” the priest said, “why are you here?”

She finishes the scotch and sets the glass on the table, atop a magazine.

“How do I find joy? How do I cure this illness? You know how my mother died. They call what my father had alcoholism now. He drank himself to death. Is that any more dignified than a bedsheet noose?”

The priest winced, finishing the glass of scotch.

“You want to know the truth?” He said, “I think some people can’t be helped. Like an infant dying. It’s useless tragedy. That sadness is all around us.”

Brielle snickered, scolding him, “That’s harsh, for a priest.”

He said, “You go to a church for the priest’s advice. You came to my home. Why?”

“Church was locked,” she said.

“Even a priest has to sleep,” he said, “you couldn’t wait for confession?”

“The last time I saw you,” Brielle said, “I was 14 years old, and I was with my family at the bar one night. I started playing outside because some of the other girls were busy sneaking shots of absinthe. I used to hate the flavor of anise, black licorice. Then I saw you, walking by. You stopped what you were doing to talk to me. You were so handsome.”

“I was younger,” he said.

“Yes,” Brielle said, “but you were always older and wiser, somehow. We were all obsessed with you. When I saw you, I felt so joyful. Remember, we went walking together on that trail?”

“Brielle,” the priest said.

“Right? We went walking the trail and then we were holding hands. I hadn’t held hands with a man who wasn’t my uncle or cousins, family, you know. I was thrilled. You must be at least 15 or 20 years older than me. It felt so innocent.”

“Please, it’s nice of you to visit and talk about the past, but I don’t need to hear this right now.”

Brielle continued, “You were such a gentleman. Somehow you made me feel so pretty. I felt seen. When you kissed me, it was nice. I wish I could have just remembered the nice part.”

The priest got up and walked over to the kitchen counter. He poured himself more scotch, his back was turned away from her.

Brielle said, “Then you kissed me again and it was rougher, and you grabbed at me. I would say you grabbed at my ass and tits. You did, but really you just grabbed at my body. Blindly.”

Brielle laughed, “I later realized you must have just been inexperienced. You didn’t know how to touch a woman. I stopped you from going further. You would have gone further. Right there on the patch of dirt.”

The priest drank, poured himself some more.

“Do I get any, Rodrigo?” she said.

Rodrigo turned around.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I regret it, I really do.”

Now Brielle looked angry.

“Oh please,” she said, “I’m not here for an apology. I’m not here to ruin your day. You came on to me and when I asked you to stop, you stopped. I went home. It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” Rodrigo said.

“It was the part I left out of the telling of the story,” she said, “when I stopped you. When I pulled away from kissing you, I saw your face. You should have seen it. Your face. The disgust. The disappointment. You were like a six-foot-tall baby about to cry. The truth is, in my head, at the time, I had to stop myself from laughing. You looked ridiculous.”

“Get out,” Rodrigo said, quietly.

“That was the first thing I wanted to say to you.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Want to hear the second thing? You’ll like the second thing.”

Rodrigo rolled his eyes, “fine,” he said, “let’s hear it.”

“Please,” Brielle said, swishing her empty glass.

She felt completely outside of herself. She was playing a part. She was speaking lines that were written and memorized. What was she doing here? Rodrigo poured her the rest of the scotch and sat back down, exhausted. The scotch was fiery in her throat like swallowing a campfire ember.

“The second thing I wanted to say to you is, I’m ready,” she said.

“For what?” Rodrigo said.

Brielle set the glass down and walked over to the seated priest.

“When I was 14 you wanted to have sex with me, I wasn’t ready. I’m ready now.”

“You can’t be serious,” the priest said.

“Why not?” Brielle said.

“I can’t,” Rodrigo said.

“Because of God? Really? Is that your excuse?” Brielle said.

She straddled him. He quaked beneath her.

“No. I can’t,” he said, “I’m old. And so are you.”

She was amused at him trying to wound her. She groped his genitals. He half-heartedly pushed her off. She got rougher. She kneaded him.

“Stop, get off, you whore,” Rodrigo said, “I wouldn’t fuck you, especially after what you said about me.”

“I hurt your feelings,” she said, getting off him, standing up, “good.”

“You’re insane. A basket case,” he said, getting in her face.

“I should tell everyone what you did to me. What the priest did to a 14-year-old.”

The priest looked horrified. He was smoldering. He was belligerent.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he said.

“If you don’t fuck me right now, I will tell everyone what you did,” she said, “I promise you that.”

“Get out,” he said.

“Can’t you see I want you angry?” she said.

The priest shoved Brielle on the bed. He parted her legs. He furiously unfurled himself from his robe and trousers. He tugged at his penis while peeling off her underwear. He tried to stick his penis in, but he was soft. He was sweating, red in the face. So desperate, Brielle giggled as she rolled off the bed.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“I’ve had enough,” she said, shaking her head, gathering her things, “I got what I came for.”

She left the priest there, holding his flaccid penis in his hands, with that look on his face, like he was a child who just had his toy snatched away.