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He got down on his knees and bent his balding aged head over a black gilt leaf Bible he had respectfully placed on the edge of the bed.“Blessed Lord Jesus forgive me for my sins,” he muttered and crossed himself three times.He took the Bible and placed it in his briefcase.From a black holdall bag he took out some objects and put them on the bed. One stick, a cane, one wooden paddle and a studded brown leather strap.Father Mortimer looked at them and gasped, fell to his knees and cried out “Oh Heavenly father I behold the trinity!”Quite by accident the objects had been placed in such a formation.The old man recovered himself and gathered the implements and placed them on one of the two pillows.He looked at his watch. It was eight thirty already. Then Father Mortimer went to the window and drew a curtain back slightly. A car was just pulling into a space. It stopped. Then Father Mortimer’s mobile made a sound. He looked at it and tapped away at the virtual keyboard. A car door could be. She was wearing a knee-length dark blue dress in stretchy fabric which clung to her curves and also rode up a little when she sat. So my hand was on skin; that rich, ebony skin that had entranced me ever since I had first seen her. She smiled back at me and put her hand on mine. Then she did something that, I now realized, she had done before, but in public and with no explanation: she put her middle finger on the middle bone of my index finger and pressed firmly with a slight downward slide. I was reminded of a saying I had heard once in a song: nothing happens till it happens twice. I took that to be a theatrical insight, meaning that something could appear insignificant if it happens once. But when it happens again, you think, “Hang on, why is she doing that?”The placing of a finger on another finger with some pressure but no erotic stroking suddenly demanded an explanation, but I didn’t know what it was. All I did know was that it was some kind of signal, some sort of statement.
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