There’s this boy in church. His name is Enoch. Enoch’s daddy is a preacher. It’s probably why he’s in the choir and plays the piano. From where I sit, every Sunday service, for 3 hours in my stiff church dress, I can see how his pretty hands move over the keys. I’ve always had a thing for nice hands, nice hands, and church boys.

I wish I could join the choir, then I’d get to see Enoch on Saturdays too when the choir members meet for practice. But my sister already did, and she’s loud and obnoxious and will draw attention to me when all I want is to be left alone, to watch Enoch. Mommy would have a fit if she heard my thoughts. She likes to go on and on about the good work of the youth in the church. That would be the likes of Enoch and my sister. They love the Lord. And I, on the other hand, just love Enoch. If I love Enoch and everything that he loves, one of them being God, does it mean that I too, love God?

Yesterday, Enoch stayed behind for the youth meeting after the church service. He’s never stayed behind before. I think it’s because he’s so far above us, he won’t fit in even if he tries. Far above us like God. Does God think me silly for comparing a mere mortal boy to him? Mortal. Enoch is mortal just like everyone else. It feels weird to think of him as a warm body with thoughts and feelings. He might even have acne.

I am reminded by my thoughts that I’ve never really seen Enoch close up. He’s always up at the altar, serving the Lord, or below the altar, serving man. However, yesterday when I took my back seat during the youth meeting and turned to watch the people around me, he was there. Right in my line of vision. Seeing his face so close was my gift for ironing my dress today, wasn’t it? Mommy says people who think impure thoughts about boys will be punished by the good Lord. Good and Lord? How odd! I’m ready to be punished though because I’m thinking of how nice it would be, to touch Enoch’s face. God, to have his skin under my fingers. To have his eyes follow the movement of my hands.

I’m too nervous to look in his direction again, and when I gather the courage to, he’s gone.

Now that I have seen his face, if only for a few seconds, I want more. God, if I don’t talk back to mommy, the way I do in my head, will you maybe let me hear his voice? That shouldn’t be a lot to ask for considering all the tricks you know. I might even end up loving you.

It’s been three months. I haven’t heard Enoch’s voice. It’s been a year. I still haven’t heard Enoch’s voice. It’s been five years now. I’m seated in a creative writing class in a different city. A boy sits next to me as the class is about to start. He borrows one of my pens. The boy is Enoch.

God, is that you?