Jesus Saves by Lorraine Berry
The mix CD arrived in the mail, a present from my 24-year old lover to me, a newly divorced 38-year old woman, who, after the ravages of marriage, wasn’t all that certain that she still had it going on, sexually. The songs did not all come out and say directly, “I want to fuck you,” but the rhythms within them, some fast and hard, some languorous and soft, all bespoke desire. I couldn’t stop playing the CD in anticipation of his arrival. I was so anxious to see him that I told him I’d save him the last hour of his trip by picking him up at the penultimate bus stop, an hour from where I lived. It’s a wonder we didn’t crash. Almost immediately, he had sought my flesh as I drove, his hand on my thigh, his fingers brushing my belly, stroking just under the waistband of my jeans. I forced myself to keep my eyes on the road, my hands on the steering wheel. I pulled the car off at the next exit. The tiny town comprised a couple of gas stations; a school; a fast food restaurant; and a church, a boxy building with large, red neon letters that proclaimed: JESUS SAVES. I parked in the darkest part of the lot, and then both of us yanking aside clothes, I straddled him, my palms pushing against the roof of the car for leverage. As I came, JESUS SAVES glowed against the screen of my closed eyelids.