She crept out during the hymn,

not the first one, or even the last one, but the middle one. Her keys jingled a bit in her hand, purse slung over her shoulder, her eyes on the floor. A few looked up—peered over their hymnals—curious. The couple that rubbed all over each other during the sermon glanced her way and kind of grinned. A man in a suit and tie guarding the exit tried to make eye contact, touched her shoulder, as if he thought they were equal or friends, but she knew he didn’t think that. Not at all. She pushed past him, dodged a few more glances, dropped her bulletin in the parking lot before sliding into her car.

And that was that. There wasn’t anything left after that. Not at all.


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