Living was a burden. A constant fight. The feeling of never being who or what he was here to be. Continually removing and reapplying masks. But never truly at peace with what gawked back in the mirror. The ever harsh and critical set of eyes that looked down the bridge of his nose. He figured being in America would be different. A place to forget. A city to drown his fears. To cover the scars. But Las Vegas was beginning to be the catalyst, and not the intended rock to hide under.

He always thought he would prosper here. In amongst the stories and legends that were building. Bricks in towering skyscrapers. Parts of an ever awe inspiring skyline. But what was a priest to really expect? Becoming one of the pillars was never a reality. A foolish dream, sprung from a well of decay. But how could death not be an opportunity? It was always said to be the before of a renewed after. A trigger to bigger and better things. But it was becoming more of the same.

More hurt. More running. Flailing arms to a cemented torso. Stuck in the moment. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. The rock kicked well out of view. But it was becoming clear. In a muddy pond, the sun still made its way to the depths. The truth still found itself. And sometimes rock bottom was exactly where one needed to be. Where a priest needed to hit before the rubble spelt out the words he had so desperately needed to hear. Take me home.

The shining of the morning's rays refracted through the empty glasses on the bedside table. The blinds were half open and lobsided, never properly let loose the night before. There wasn't a care for it. A blur was all he could muster as she shufffed around his apartment. His eyes wanted to stay closed. His mind, even further from the moment. But his curiosity held them agape. If it weren't for the fact he was extremely hung over, his fears would've also held his eyelids apart to see the naked body of a somebody tip toeing around his bed.

For a moment it was as if he was still dreaming. Her curves seemed to be liken to what his eyes met on pin-ups when he served time as a soldier back in Italy. And if his throbbing chest didn't ring the alarm that she was actually there, he might've stared a lot longer. But her movements. Those slender hips. The luscious protruding backside before a full frontal view of her plump breasts as she turned towards him. She seemed a dream. But he knew better.

Flashes of the night before flooded in as he closed his eyes again. Shame and guilt began to surface. But that body. Like a tug of war, his mind was being pulled between what he was conditioned with and his natural instincts. Between ideals and straight humanity. A rope of self, tugged at by his consciousness. And on either end stood two sides to the battle. Remnants of his priesthood on one. Humanity pulling from the other.

It was still a haze, but it was slowly coming back to him. He pushed himself up to rest on his right elbow. Squinting, still reluctant to appreciate the light that was filling the room. He raised his free arm to shield his eyes so he could take a better look. As he did, she flung herself onto the bed. Bra and panties had been found amongst the mess that had become his bedroom floor. Her submissive glance and smile seemed genuine. And her tight hug an appreciation he'd not felt before. Not from his holy book. Humanity was winning.

She wrapped herself around his body, which was mostly covered by a grey sheet that was all that remained as a form of comfort from the cold. He reciprocated with a hand brushing through her long blonde locks. It felt silk to touch. A little matted, but it made for a nice texture to run his hands through. She had way about her. Not in what she was saying, as no words were spoken. Or doing, as she lay still. But in her nurturing energy. The kind that made him feel at ease in an instant. It melted away any self conscious thoughts before they even arose.

Flashes of the night before still persisted, yet they were welcome. Many glasses of whisky poured and sipped. Some quicker than others. Yet all in her company. Shared with moments of deep connection and conversation. And flashes of what came after as the night wore on. A smirk grabbed at his lips as his hand continued to play with tangles in her hair, then moved to running lightly over her naked shoulder. Soft to touch. Warming to the heart.

As the morning lingered, so did his appreciation for the opposite sex. Once seen as a challenge to his priesthood. Now a key to a part of himself that no holy words or example could open. It just had to be experienced directly. Like everything else in life. You couldn't truly appreciate what you hadn't gone through personally. And as the awareness grew that he may soon have to rely on only a memory of their time spent together, it didn't matter. Love took many forms. Even momentary, fleeting shards.

She sighed and moved herself up on the bed. Their eyes met. Hers as enlived as his. Still no words, but none were needed. A shared moment. A silent thank you. She kissed Francis on the cheek. Her lips slow to touch. Slower to part. The light shade of red leaving a coy memory. A sultry reminder of their time together. A feminine touch he wouldn't soon forget.

Her weight lifted off of him as she slid down and off the bed. His eyes closed and a warmth washed over him. Content to simply be content. Not stuck in thoughts of a past he had come to America to forget. They had slipped from memory. All that was needed was the vulnerable embrace of another. Something that had escaped him in Calabria.

The sound of a door closing snapped him back to the moment. With eyes once again open, the room looked empty. Just him. And a light breeze from an open window in the kitchenette. He glanced over at the large dresser. It was gone. A stack of bills he remembered placing there before the night got too intimate. But he didn't mind. It was to be expected. It was her profession. And he couldn't fault her for what she did so well.

Francis rolled over and pulled the sheet over his body as the wind outside the third story apartment began to blow harder. He was changed. His thoughts rolled on as bits and pieces of the puzzle that was last night sorted themselves into the bigger picture. He could still smell her perfume on his pillow. The sweet scent of Liberty.