“Corpo di Cristo.”
“Amen.”
It occurred to young Padre Antonio, as he distributed communion at first mass, that he really should have washed his hands first. His fingers still felt slightly viscous, turning claggy on the hosts. He swore silently, simultaneously praying forgiveness both for his profanity and for his solitary cockcrow concupiscence.
Donna Anna, mantilla-clad and luscious, widowed at thirty, knelt at the altar rail, but imagined she smelt chlorine, as she extended her soft tongue to receive her Lord.
But then she realised. And their eyes met.
And they both knew what they must do.
