“I have something better than hope, I think.”

Heaven help the weak when the flames lap, singe, burn, and melt down all concealment, for we all know the powers of hell and how they pale in comparison to that of the scorned heart of a young woman.

Men can be weak. Flesh. Blood. All things burning and seething, boiling and lust. You will blush for your sin, John, and you will blush for other purposes as well. It is not your fault. But, it is.

Abigail, I know you are dancing in the forest, dancing always in his direction, a satellite spinning and pulled as if by gravity, as if by heat. You both, after all, have a sense for it.

A man’s soul may come cheaply, but his name… ah, his name. His name cannot be bought, purchased, and tread upon. All men make mistakes, Abby, and this one was his. But oh, did he pay for it. Rest assured, he is paying even now.

And Abby, you will forgive me as I ask, where is your tithe after all of this?

(She could be dark or light.)