Page 49 of Ezekiel
“Yeah. I’d like to do more. Honestly, I’ve toyed around with the idea of finding an actual agent in St. George to handle my art work. I’d love to have my own showing at a gallery or something. You know, someday.” I watched the way the corner of his lips curled up at the thought, but only just. As though he were hesitant to allow even himself to believe that it was possible. I could understand why.
“Wouldn’t that be hard? It is against God’s teachings to fraternize so much with the outside world. In order to stay pure, we must stay isolated.” As the words I had learned long ago slipped past my lips, I realized they felt foreign. How could that be? I knew the teachings of the Lord. I knew that the world outside of Zion had perverted and butchered the word of God into their own interpretation in order to suit their hedonistic needs. But somehow that didn’t feel right. It felt different now, and I wasn’t sure why.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, kind of. But maybe not?” he stammered. The way he pulled into himself at my line of questioning made me feel guilty. I didn’t want him to lock himself away again.
“I would go to a show like that,” I admitted, feeling the blush spread over my cheeks.
“You would?” His eyes lifted, finding my own and searching for something I wasn't sure of. I didn’t know how to explain how I felt, so I just nodded. His eyes moved over my body, busying himself with washing my skin as we both sat in companionable silence. How did I feel about it? Would it bother me to become more involved with the outside world? On the one hand, I wanted to support my husband. Not just because he was my husband, but because his art truly was beautiful. And I wanted to see him succeed. I tried to imagine it. To picture the two of us, dressed up like some swanky couple, in a gallery filled with his paintings. It was a fun little imagery of a life I wasn’t sure could be real. At least not in Zion. And what did that mean, exactly?
“Do you like it here?” he asked me, breaking the calm quiet of the moment. His hands had moved around to the front of my body, running the suds over my breasts and arms, down over my stomach. His movements were only caring, with no real sexual connotation.
“Here in the bathtub or here in your home?” I teased, my mind still racing with thoughts of a different life.
“Actually, I meant here in Zion,” he admitted.
“Do I like it here in Zion?” I restated, the question bouncing around my brain in confusion. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“I mean, do you like your life here? Do you like the town? The people? The church?” he prattled off questions, one by one.
“Do I like the church? I mean, of course I do. Zion is my home. It’s where I was raised and where I found my family.” I balked at his questions.
“Where you found your family? I’m not sure what that means?”
“I was adopted,” I explained, watching as the realization crossed slowly over his face.
“Really?” he asked, surprised. I busied my own hands, letting them run over his chest, the powerful muscles beneath the surface twitching under my touch.
“Yes. My parents adopted me when I was five and brought me here.”
“Do you remember your life before them?” he asked, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that made my blush spread.
“Not at all, actually,” I admitted with a shrug.
“That surprises me. By the age of five, so many memories and foundational elements of our personalities have already settled into place. Not a single memory?” he asked again.
“Nope. I remember little bits and pieces of those first few weeks here in Zion, I suppose. I remember coming to my home for the first time, how it felt so strange. And I remember the awkwardness of getting to know these adults who were now my parents. But I remember nothing before that. I think my first memory, the first one I can truly remember, is of French toast,” I chuckled.
“French toast?” he questioned, one eyebrow quirking over those golden eyes.
“Yeah. I had never had French toast before, and I was instantly hooked. I think I ate four entire pieces,” I giggled.
“As a seven-year-old? That’s impressive,” he smirked. That smirk had my stomach flip flopping in a way completely different from our sexual encounters. There was a boyish charm about him that endeared me to him. The more I learned of this conundrum of a man, the more I felt… well, the word escaped me. I felt at ease in this place here with him. I felt less unknown.
“I know. I gorged myself on the sticky sweetness of the stuff, but it was, and remains, one of my fondest memories.”
“But you like it here, in Zion?” he reiterated his earlier question.
“I suppose. It’s where my parents are. It’s where everyone I have ever known is.” He was fishing for some answer, and for the life of me, I could not figure out what it was.
“You like the way of life here?” he tried again, this question more specific than the one before.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” I skirted his question.
“Take it however you want to take it. I’m just curious,” he shrugged. He tossed the loofah into the water, letting just his hands move over my body slowly. And somehow, his touch carried that caring tone with no sexual component.
“I mean, yes. Of course I do,” I answered, still unsure.
“Would you change anything about life here?” That was a question that gave me pause. Would I? That was a complicated question.
