Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore 1)

In that place, they wouldn’t have to sit on opposite ends of the table. They could be on the sofa together, their shoulders and thighs touching. Or maybe, if he hadn’t been a priest in the first place, he could have put his arm across Emil’s back so that everyone knew he was taken.

They likely wouldn’t have money for a big place of their own, but he wouldn’t mind sharing a small space with someone so compatible with him despite their many differences. He imagined them carrying flat-packed furniture up the stairs of a pre-war villa, to the cheap apartment in what used to be the attic. They’d assemble the book cases together, though Emil would halfway demand to take over, leaving Adam as a helping hand and refreshment-bringer.

He was so good at DIY. He dealt with most issues in his home with ease, and had even come over to hang new shelves in Adam’s bare room at the parsonage. Watching him work with his hands was a pleasure in itself, as it reminded Adam of the other things those skilled fingers could do.

Beds were most expensive, so they’d sleep on a mattress laid out on the floor at first, with no one to ask why Adam stayed overnight in another man’s house. Because it would be theirs. They’d choose their own plates, and cutlery, and they’d share a wardrobe. He wouldn’t be stuck with whatever the parsonage offered or what his mother picked out. Every morning, Adam would grind fresh coffee so that they could have it together at breakfast, and when asked, he’d answer without hesitation: ‘of course, we’re boyfriends’.

But he couldn’t say it now, because he didn’t intend to stay with Emil, even though thinking about that bleak future made his chest heavy with regret.

He glanced at the nearby church again. He’d have enough time for confession if he went now, but Emil seemed so animated, so excited for the meeting that he decided to stay and drink his coffee slowly while they discussed silly gossip.

Emil checked his watch as he finished his drink. “Time to go. Excited to lug boxes of cherries?”

Adam was definitely excited to see Emil’s biceps bulging as he carried the crates, but he kept that to himself and quickly paid for their meal before following Emil into the square. The sky was now overcast, but he still had plenty of sunshine left inside him.

“Let’s do it.”

They walked out of the car-free zone, to a small park near the parking lot where they’d left Father Marek’s car, and sat on one of the benches, watching an elderly couple feed pigeons chunks of dried bread.

“I might also make a plum batch. Mrs. Zofia’s daughter visited me a while ago after coming over to sort out the house, and she offered the plums from her mother’s orchard if I wanted them. She’d heard what people said about me and the crows and felt bad. It was very nice of her.”

Adam smiled, but his face fell when a swarm of crows descended on the poor pigeons, scaring the elderly lady so much she dropped the whole paper bag on the footpath. The black birds tore it up, scattering the bread as if it were guts, and just like that—Adam was back on the edge of the ditch, watching Zofia’s torn-up remains.

“Can they have rabies?” Adam asked when the couple hurriedly left.

Emil shook his head. “No. They’re just always like that. Look, that’s the car. The red van.” He got up and gave the driver a short wave.

The man waved back and parked the vehicle on the side of the street. Two little girls sat in the other front seat, but the farmer left them to play and approached with a polite smile. He looked like the most average of average thirty-somethings, though he did have a bit of bulk to his shoulders.

“I’m Piotr,” he said and shook Adam’s hand first. It was only when he was close that Adam spotted a pin on the side of his hoodie. It read Families Against LGBT Ideology and featured stick figures of a female and male character, with three little ones.

Adam’s grip faltered somewhat, but he kept his smile polite as he introduced himself too. “Thank you for giving us your time. I can imagine you’re a very busy man,” he said, nodding toward the van.

A smile lit up Piotr’s face, and he glanced over his shoulder. “They’re a handful, but I hear it’ll only get worse once they’re in their teens.”

There. Safe topic.

At Adam’s side, Emil crossed his arms on his chest. Adam noticed too late that he was no longer smiling. “Yeah. Fucking teenagers, right? Might grow their hair out, or put metal in their faces. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Adam froze, and so did Piotr, whose shoulders grew tense, changing his body language within the blink of an eye. “What’s your problem, punk?”