By Jeff Blechle
Alysa and Brenden slid safely into the back pew, high and daydreaming.
“So, do I have to get pregnant before you’ll marry me?” Alysa hissed.
“Sure. Got a father in mind?”
She shoved him. “Our Father, who art in Heaven.”
Parishioners turned scowls on them.
“Some mother you’d make.”
“Really?”
Brenden nodded, and Alysa jumped during an organ arpeggio.
When the usher slid a collection basket under their giggles, Alysa caressed Brenden’s belly. “Two stacks of wafers, garçon. He’s eating for two now.”
Laughing, Brenden pointed down at his belly. “It’s our first!”
The usher peeked upward, shrugged, then crowned them.
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