A Baptism

He would cleanse the temple if Sharon would not. No woman should defile her body with foul things such as tattoos, especially not one who loved a pastor. Did she not respect him? He’d built too good a legacy in this town—devoted his life to it. He’d officiated weddings of old friends, baptized their children. What kind of example was she setting for these young girls? His hands shook with a desperation and fury he struggled to keep below the surface. After a moment, in deafening silence, Sharon was there: makeup running with the tempo of pounding fists on his chest. Beneath his grip, Jericha’s familiar, tattooed shoulders contrasted the transparent-white baptismal gown like liquid porcelain in a pool of ink; a lifeless frame in a stormy sea. 

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