Domestication

It is inconvenient that in the most reverent of situations, I find it the most difficult to control myself and all of a sudden am overcome with a number of primal urges. When Andy passed me the heavy silver tray containing the shot-glass sized Lord’s Supper cups, filled to the brim on one half with grape juice and containing a complacent oyster cracker in the other, it was all I could do not to flip the entire thing over the pew and onto the unsuspecting citizens in front of me with a guttural screech. After overcoming that first desire, I found myself facing a veritable maze of obstacles that tested my respect for ceremony and reputation of fair lucidity. It took every fiber of my being to daintily hold my precarious glass when my entire body ached to simply stick my tongue into the juice side. Holding the capsule there in my fingers, I wondered how such a basic task could prove so challenging and I resolved all of my concentration into making sure I didn’t send the thing flying through the rows. A few drops still escaped. I began to lick them up, a hungry look in my eyes, until I caught my sister’s horrified stare and came back to my senses. I took a few deep breaths. Visibly trembling with the effort, I placed the tiny cracker into my mouth instead of following through with my plans to set it on the palm of my hand and vacuum it up with one powerful inhalation. I stand by the fact that this would’ve been a brilliant experience, and at the time nothing seemed as satisfying an idea. Just when I thought that I couldn’t take anymore without reverting to my primitive need to see if I could fit the entire thing in my mouth, the tinkling sound of the cups being placed in their hollows greeted my ears. It sounded like four hundred people popping their cheeks at once, a warm sound that swelled to the edges of the cavernous sanctuary. I let out an audible sigh and wiped the beads of sweat from my brow. Another embarrassing Communion successfully evaded.