Christian separated and dating

I sounded as if I were reading off the menu from Le Pain Quotidian, but he humored me with applause.

“You’re accent is superb,” he said.“Thank you,” I said, flattered.

On our first date, Patrick suggested we take a Sunday afternoon walk on the Highline after our respective church services.

As I climbed the last of the steps to the top of the old train platform, I recognized him right away.

I pictured them sitting together at a desk, poring over social science proofs and speaking secret words to each other.“It’s been a year,” he said, and steered me with his hand to a bench, brushing away dead leaves.

That’s when I noticed a small, plastic ring he was wearing on his pinky finger, on an otherwise ringless left hand.“Oh, that.” He played with the ring, turning it on his finger.

I have something to tell you.” When Patrick suddenly sent me this text, I knew it couldn’t be a good thing.

I imagined a sun-bronzed goddess in an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse.

I figured this was the most authentic act of faith: to listen and forgive.

We met at a nicer restaurant across the street from the Mc Donald’s.

He was handsome, wore glasses, was going slightly gray, and edged a little on the nerdy side: perfect.

I was a 33-year-old Lutheran deacon-in-training trying to convince myself I didn’t want to have sex with him, even though I did.

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