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The Mira I knew when I was a kid, the Mira I want when I’m feeling alone.
So what’s the problem?
There’s shit on your knees, it’s all over your knees.
Fuck you, Ezrah. There’s no shit on my knees.
Only I can see it. You can’t see that genre of shit.
I knew he would say something like this.
Or: Jism is not invisible, Mira.
Oh, go fuck yourself, Ezrah. And fuck your jism-flecked birthday!
‘Who do you pray to, Mira?’
Gio’s voice woke me.
‘Nobody,’ I said.
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is. I hate God.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’
My eardrums beat blood.
‘While you were asleep, you were crying for God.’
‘I was not.’
‘Yes you were. You were crying, “God, God!”’ Gio imitated my voice. He seemed to be getting more comfortable with me or something.
I stared at the road. The road never changed. ‘Look, I’m not religious,’ I said.
Gio laughed. ‘Do you know how the Christians pray?’
I remembered Nadia Russian Orthodox in her taffeta skirt. They dress up for God to respect him, she’d said.
‘Yes or no?’
‘No.’
Gio rolled down the window to let in some air. It started whistling over our heads.
‘The Christians pray,’ he said slowly, ‘to believe in the flesh of Jesus Christ: the real man, with real blood.’
I felt weird that he’d just said Jesus Christ. The heat in my body had all gone away.
Gio shifted around on his seat. It was like he was trying to scratch inside his back. ‘When a Christian girl kneels before the priest,’ he said, ‘the body of Jesus is put in her mouth. She says: Hoc est enim corpus meum. You know what that means? Come, say it with me.’
I thought he was joking. Nadia would’ve told me about that! A girl on her knees before the priest who puts Jesus’ body inside her mouth?
‘Hoc est enim corpus meum. Come, say: Hoc est enim corpus meum.’
‘No.’
