Sunday Sob

It was good, she told herself, therapeutic. Each Sunday she knew she would do it, knew as surely as the weeks were marked on the calendar in her bedroom. When the pastor prayed at the end of the sermon, a maelstrom of emotions automatically overwhelmed her, and she burst into face-contorting tears. Barely able to see, she felt her way to the entranceway and left. The other churchgoers barely looked up it was so ritual. Sobs wracked her in the morning parking lot. Then, soon enough, she looked about, dabbed her face, and greeted the congregation smiling as they left.