# The Chapel Her text said "the College's Chapel", but, inevitably -- fucking _predictably_, when I push the door, there's no one there. I assumed this meeting point was on account of the piano, obviously. This is where the University keeps their, as far as I know sole, Steinway. It's a half-grand, the dark brown wood lackered rather than dressed up in Concert Black. I love its sound, though this probably comes from the room. I walk, noting that the barefoot soles she's constantly mocking are quite silent on the tiling, so what echoes in the space - taller than it is wide, but longer than either, is the rustling of my suit. Also, I notice, I'm breathing rather hard. I did get there at pace. I play a couple of bars of Philip Glass. This is an instrument with character, a history, an excellent one originally, but taken care of like everything else in the University, so the action is chaotic, unpredictable. Which, come to think of it, could also describe her - although I don't know who's whose instrument in this relationship. I pull my phone out to check the time. I got here quick because I know this is right when they lock the building. Notice that the text is "I'm in", not "meet me in". At least it's not "meat me in", this did happen once. I don't know if I'm in the wrong place. Unless this is a bit, and she's planning to appear as the Virgin Mary. Wouldn't put it past her, I'm just assuming it's just the palette of her available wardrobe holding her back from this particular skit. I've switched from Glass to trying random harmonies to a ground bass. My fingers, on an instrument, trying to figure out the placement, the rhythms which will move the soul. I don't like how flustered I am by this all. So I'm not calling her name, out of pride, and the possibility of stray ears in the building. Play for a bit. Maybe better to wait until locking time. I don't think they have the means to have security tour to make sure everyone's out, doors just become one way. This Steinway may get nicked before it gets sold off. Then I remember, in another of these flashes of insight which comes, for free, with considerations on power and privilege. It's like how rich people will have a smaller house at the bottom of the garden of their big house. Or an infinity pool over the Mediteranean, which is just a big pool. Of course, they have a small chapel next to the big chapel. The big one gets used three times a year for services, with seating along the long axis. The rest of the time, it's a lecture hall, maybe the largest one available, come to think of it. I don't know if it's still technically consecracted. After all, they teach _Business_ in here. I chuckle to myself as I close the piano's lid, then wonder if I've just added the deadly sin of Vanity to that of Lust. Religions love listicles. Small chapel it is - and this one must be consecrated, this is where the actual praying happens. It's just down the hall. I compose myself for a second. I don't have plausible deniability for my heart rate at this stage. Wish there was a mirror. Think *yes, Vanity, tick*. Notice I'm already showing some uncomfortable - though only morally - tumescence. Readjust, straight up, tucked into the waistband, avoid tenting. She'd never let me hear the end of it. I push the door and, equally fucking predictably, she's kneeling, front and centre, on that red-velvet padded knee thing they have for just this purpose. Fair play to her, waiting like that, maybe it's more than for the bit. A quiet word with one's own soul never hurt anyone. For a second I think she's wearing a nun's veil, but that's just her hair. This prompts me to wonder how much who I think she is is my projection. "Come pray with me", she says, quietly, but audibly enough. Different acoustics here. I'd track the piano in the big hall, but overdub vocals in that room. "I'm not sure my knees can take it", I say, sitting down, front row, left, the far chair. Close enough, but as far as possible within the close enough. Approach with caution. "My spiritual practice is more a sitting affair". "Fine", the tone has whiplashed to petulant. She's up in a flash, twirls. Wearing what I've come to refer as her Victorian child sex worker outfit. I close my eyes, because it's a commando situation, upstairs and downstairs, as usual. Also, maybe this is a chance for a quiet sit, I think, deluding myself, just to keep composure. I feel her sitting next to me, the warmth radiating from her body. I straighten my back and involuntarily Kegel. Something electric up my spine. Kundalini energy. "What are we praying for, then ?", she asks, sounding back to (what I realise I may be the one reading as) mild flirtation. "I'm more of a meditation guy", I say, "we wait for God to speak first." I hear some rustling of fabric. "Tell me what God's telling you, then, o Prophet." My right hand is resting on my thigh, palm up. Was. It gives the naked, hot - *a fever? detoxing?* flesh of her thigh a playful squeeze. "God's pronouns are they/them." I feel her body tense in response. Hand back in the lap, please and thank you, better hold it with the other one. I open my eyes and look dead ahead to give my sensory input some decent competition from the heat, shape, scent of her. The first thing I see is a Christ on the cross, in agony. His face is loudly signalling the 'look what you did to God's very own baby' guilt-trip. Look away. There's a niche with a 4 foot tall Mary in marble, and her expression, conversely is an understated, appreciated 'you go, GURL!' "I know what you're doing here, by the way, and I'm thinking you're probably not the first, Nuns would come 'pray' here", I swallow, and the noise seems as loud as as a finger snap. I'm feeling very hot and hard. This is annoying. Walked right into this one sitting against the wall. "Sure, but they weren't allowed to do this with Father Perv, were they?", and, like a sprung trap, her right hand shoots up from under her skirt, crosses over to me, parks a finger under my nose. I inhale before I've had a chance to think it through. You know when they say 'it's like being there' ? Maybe it *was* a trap, springing. My right hand - not me, I want to emphasise, grabs her thigh again, and, this time, holds. "I really wish--", I start, but she stops me by wiping her finger on her moustache, then withdrawing her hand. Presumably to resume its previous position. "Something to remember me by", with a teasing, girlish tone that is just _insufferable_. "Insufferably delightful", I manage to articulate, but my next breath gives me a full wave of her straight through the brain and I stop speaking. Release her leg. She's up in another burst of sharp, quick, motion: "Now off you fuck. Let me pray." Petulant again. She walks back to the kneeling place. I'm breathing through my mouth now: "Yeah, I don't even know why I came." "Oh, have you already? How disappointing. *Fucking* predictably." I get up. "Very good". I need to wash her off my face. But. Tomorrow, maybe. Have a thing or three to take care of before that. She kneels again, this time her left hand holding an identically upholstered bar part of the _prie-Dieu_. I'm turning around, because she's pointedly leaning forward, to flash me the crack in her soul. Her breath already quickening as I reach the door. "Enjoy yourself. Don't stain the upholstery, this is vintage furniture." I'm still breathing through my mouth, but only until I'm out of the chapel.