The priest looks us up and down, scans our paperwork, eyes us up some more. "You are a mixed marriage," he says.
Josh is Lutheran. We're doing this for my mother. Getting married in the Catholic church, that is. The marriage itself -- that one was our idea. "Yes," I say. "We're a mixed marriage."
"I can pencil you in," the priest says, "but if a real marriage comes up, you'll have to go to the deacon."
"A real marriage?" Josh says. I put my hand on his knee and nod at the priest. He looks at our forms again.
"Wait," he says.
"What?" I ask.
"You have the same address."
"Yup," Josh says. I nod.
"You must stop having sex," the priest says. "Right now. And young man, if you don't have a place to stay before the wedding, you must move in with me."
"You're making the deacon marry us, but you wanna be roomies?" Josh says. My hand is on his knee no longer to soothe him, but to physically keep him in his chair.
"I am the vessel, son," the priest says, "and this is your everlasting soul."
"Don't worry, Father," I say. "He only pulls that one out for special occasions." My mother isn't going to like this. She's not going to like this at all.
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