Sunday Service
Matthew F. X. Fitzgerald’s morning erection hovered over the sink as he leaned against the vanity. A pair of brown eyes stared blankly back at him from the mirror. Blink. He popped the toothbrush into the brass holder and wandered down the hallway, trying to tuck his stiff joint back into the fly of his pajamas. Damn annoyance, he thought, a waste of good wood. He wondered what his wife had gotten into so early on a Sunday. This was the one day of the week he could sleep late. Yet, somewhere...