He said I was fired and that he was serious this time. Not like all the other times he’d threatened to fire me. This time, he said, it was real. 
He said it was because of budget cuts. Last time it was because I clocked in late too often. The time before that it was because I took too many smoke breaks even though he knew I wasn’t a smoker. 
‍ ‍What if I become a smoker? I asked and he said he’d re-hire me and then fire me again for having such a smart mouth. 
‍ ‍What if I show you what else I can do with my mouth? I asked and then I wasn’t fired anymore. 
I tried it again, this morning. Seducing him, I mean. I tried seducing my boss and it didn’t work. You might be thinking that failing to seduce my boss would be a good thing. People shouldn’t sleep with their boss. Bosses shouldn’t sleep with their people and blah blah blah, and you’d be right.
But let me explain. 
I’ve known Jonah, my boss, since we were kids. We were in the same class starting in kindergarten. His last name is Zeller and mine Zimmerman, so we were always placed next to each other. At desks and in single file lines, Jonah and I became close. So close that when he put gum in Amanda Fink’s hair in the 4th grade, I pretended like I didn’t see anything. So close that when he fake proposed to me on the swing set after school one day, I said yes, and the next day at recess, all our friends gathered around as I walked down the cement aisle that was the parking lot our elementary school. My second-grade bridesmaids helped me pick a bouquet of dandelions and I situated the hood of my fuzzy pink Justice jacket in place, while the rest draped down my back like a veil. 
It was actually pretty cute, now that I’m thinking about it. 
Anyways, we weren’t as close in high school. I became a theater kid, and he was on the baseball team, but we remained friendly. He gifted me a bouquet of flowers after each of the spring musicals I was in— the violets he gave me after coming to see Grease were my favorite. I went to a few of his baseball games even though he knew how much I hated baseball, and we’d always go out for milkshakes after. But time went on, and we continued to grow further apart until it eventually became nothing but liked Instagram posts and a few Happy Birthday! or Merry Christmas! texts a year. 
I knew he got married. I was invited to the wedding but didn’t end up going because it was in Pittsburgh where they were living at the time and I couldn’t afford to take a whole weekend off work. That’s when I was working in a coffee shop, and although the job was fun, the pay was shit, and I had to make rent somehow, so I declined the invitation. But I guess he and his wife moved back here because I ran into him at our mutual friend from high school’s birthday party, and we were able to catch up properly. 
He told me he’d gotten a job managing some marketing firm downtown. 

❋ 

“So, there you have it, Father. I’m an awful person, aren’t I?” I ask like hearing him say Why yes, you’re an awful person will give me some sort of validation. The air inside the confessional booth reeks of incense and old pine, and I can’t help but shuffle in my seat under its stillness.  Subconsciously, I chew the end of my right thumbnail, and don’t notice what I’m doing until some of my black nail polish chips off into my mouth, and I immediately set my hand back down.  
“No, you’re not an awful person,” the priest finally says to me. I can’t see his face behind the wooden screen of the confessional booth, but his voice is laced with lightness. Not in a mocking way, but in a way that feels almost comforting. Like he can’t even believe that I asked that question. Makes me think hey, maybe I’m not going to hell after all!
“But, haven’t I committed like a million sins? I slept with my married boss. Multiple times. Like I was the one who instigated it. That goes against probably at least 7 of the 10 commandments. I can’t remember what the 10 commandments are, but I know I’ve broken most of them.”
Part of me feels a sense of relief telling this stranger my crimes. Someone who is forced to sit here and listen to me, but I’m also thankful I can’t see his face. I picture the face my Dad used to give me when I came home past my curfew drunk after a party sophomore year of high school. Pure disappointment. 
“And, what?” the priest asks. “Are you gunning for the Best Sinner Award or something? Everyone sins. It’s inherent. We are all born with sin, but at least you’ve recognized it. And you made the effort to come here, confess yours to God, ask for his forgiveness, and that is an important step in walking the path of righteousness.” 
“But what if I don’t want to walk the path of righteousness. What if I like being a sinner.” 
“Then I don’t think you would be here right now.” 
I don’t respond. How could I? Silence falls in the booth. So quite I swear I could hear the ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum of my own heart.
“Why are you here?” Father asks after a beat. 
“Honestly, I’m not sure” I say.  “After my car wouldn’t start I just kind of began walking. And then I ended up in front of the Church and just felt like I should come inside.” 
“God, called to you, and you listened.”
“Maybe. I guess, but I—” I cut myself off, not sure if I should vocalize what I was about to. 
“Yes?” Father asks. 
“Nothing. I was just going to say that sure, God could’ve been calling me here, but I’m not sure I really believe in God. Or the Christian God necessarily. I mean, I believe in something. Some higher power. There must be some higher power out there, right? Or maybe there’s not. See? I don’t know” 
“And that’s okay,” Father says.
“…It is?” 
“It’s okay to not know what you believe. Blindly putting your trust in something that you’re not sure is real or not is scary and tricky. But that’s what faith is. And just because I choose to put my faith into something doesn’t mean that I expect everyone to do the same.” 
“Hmmm, you’re not like the priests I knew when I was in Catholic school.  If I would’ve ever vocalized those words as a kid, I probably would’ve been immediately executed” I said. 
“I think you mean excommunicated,” he corrected me
“Same thing. So, now you know everything. Aren’t you supposed to tell me to go say 5 Hail Mary’s and then I’m magically absolved of all my sins?” I ask. 
“Yes, I’ll give you a penance. Five Hail Marys sound great, but that doesn’t mean you’re immediately absolved. You still need to put in the work to recognize your sins, and to not engage in them further.” 
I shake my head in response and let out a deep breath as I absorb his words. 
“Damn, Father. If you ever decide to leave the church, you’d make one hell of a therapist.” 
“I thought about it actually, but decided to become a priest because I like the fancy robes.”