The gentleman atheist dates a Christian. A Catholic, to be specific, but he suspects under that brittle veneer of piety lays a powerful atheist. He wants to press the issue, but he cannot. He would no sooner remove the saints and candles than strip the chrysalis of its hard skin. The phrase you can’t make an omelet . . . is as meaningless to him as the Lord’s Prayer.
They lay in bed, the Catholic and the gentleman atheist. Holding hands and still wearing socks, one whispers into the other’s ear the words, I love you.
