When We Touch

“I go ten percent of the Sundays, or five Sundays a year. It’s a time-tithe.”

Snatching up the hot pad, I open the oven and pull out perfectly golden cupcakes. I’ll have just enough time to cool and frost them purple.

Holding the phone on my shoulder, I run to the mirror again with my makeup bag. “Then shouldn’t it be thirty-six Sundays a year?”

“What?” Tabby’s voice is a shriek, and I pull the phone away quickly.

“There are 365 days in a year. If you’re tithing the days, then ten percent would be… Actually thirty seven if you round up.”

“Who the fuck’s side are you on?”

Laughing, I dust powder on my nose. “I’m just trying to follow your logic.”

“This is math, not logic. I’m tithing my Sundays.”

“Hmm,” I say, reaching for my eyeliner. Just a touch at the corners. “If you only have to go five times, why now? I’d start on the Sunday after Thanksgiving and finish out the year—those are the fun ones.”

“If church is fun, you’re doing it wrong,” my friend announces loudly.

“I feel like there’s more to this story.”

She’s quiet a minute before she says, “Chad pulled me over last night.”

I pause in my mascara application to give myself a knowing look. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What did you do this time?”

“I was going forty in town.”

“Tabs! That’s dangerous!”

“I wanted to get home,” she whines. “Anyway, who’s out walking at 2 a.m.?”

“Sleepwalkers… Alzheimer’s victims.”

“I know every person in this town, and none of them fit those categories.”

“Medical emergencies?”

“You’d make a great cop. I’ll ask Chad to give you an application next time I see him,” she grumbles.

“Why does getting pulled over mean you’re going to church today?”

“I promised to be in church if he didn’t give me a ticket.”

“So it’s a penance service?”

She takes a loud sip of what I’m sure is coffee. “Something like that.”

“So you still have to go one more time to make your tithe.”

“Forget cop. You’d make a better lawyer.”

The word makes me wince, but I blow it off. It’s only a word.

“I’m hanging up now,” I say. “I’ve got to get these cupcakes to Mom’s. If you’re ready in ten minutes, we can walk together.”

“Wait for me.”

I trade my phone for the bowl of purple frosting. The cooled cupcakes are quickly covered, and I’ve molded chocolate 3s for the tops of each. I transfer them to a square Rubbermaid dish, and I’m out the door.