Parallel

self-conscious about my holey underwear. I’m not talking sleepless-night-level nakedness, but it’s possible that some articles of clothing could be removed in a couple of hours. “C’mon,” Michael says with a playful nudge, jolting these thoughts from my mind. “Not even a guess?”
    “Hmm. A movie?”
    “Nope.”
    I see the lights of the Yale Bookstore up ahead. “Uh . . . a poetry reading?”
    “Nope.” He points at the redbrick building on the corner. “Church.”
    “Church,” I repeat. “Like, a church service?” My grandma Rose is always asking if I’ve been to church up here, and she makes this tsk sound when she hears I haven’t.
    “Sort of,” he says. “But sort of not.” He slips his hand into mine. “You’ll see.” He whistles softly as we walk, his warm hand dry and rough against my clammy palm. We’ve made out in a coat closet and kissed on his doorstep, but this is the first time we’ve ever held hands.
    The whistling stops when we step inside the building. The cross-shaped sanctuary is dark and cavernous, with Gothic arches and impossibly high ceilings, the kind of room that looks like it should be freezing cold. But this one isn’t. Dozens of candles line both sides of the sanctuary, which might have something to do with the warmth and are definitely responsible for the sedating scent. I inhale deeply, trying to place it. Juniper? But something else, too . . . something more familiar. Rose? An inscription in the stone of the eastern wall catches my attention. The words glow in the candlelight. WE MAY IGNORE, BUT WE CAN NOWHERE EVADE THE PRESENCE OF GOD. THE WORLD IS CROWDED WITH HIM.—C. S. LEWIS .
    “C’mon,” Michael whispers, tugging me farther inside.
    A handful of other people are scattered among the pews, but not enough of them to convince me that we’re in the right place for whatever it is we’ve come. I glance at Michael, expecting him to look confused or uncertain, but he’s grinning. He points at an empty row.
    We slide all the way in, to the very center of the pew, where it’s much darker than it was along the edges. I don’t know whether it’s the placement of the massive stone columns or the sheer size of the room, but, though the candles are visible from where we’re sitting, their glow is distant. Michael’s face is almost entirely shrouded in darkness.
    “It’s called Compline,” he tells me, in a voice so low it’s hard to hear. “It’s a time of reflection and meditation at the end of the day. This one happens every Sunday at nine.”
    “Oh,” I whisper, because I’m not sure what else to say. Or do, for that matter. I glance around the room, looking to see what other people are doing, but the closest person is at least twenty feet away. Everyone is so quiet . There are no whispers. There is no motion. Are we just supposed to sit here in the dark?
    Then, out of the darkness, I hear a lone tenor, chanting in Latin, coming from one of the alcoves near the front. The voice is quickly joined by many others, all singing in beautiful, haunting harmony. I listen, trying to determine which side of the sanctuary the sound is coming from, but I can’t. The acoustics are too perfect to pinpoint the origin, and the choir is completely out of sight.
    The words of the inscription come drifting back, as though carried by the music. Right now, the word “thick” feels more appropriate than “crowded.” The air feels thick with something divine. And in this one moment, any feelings of fear or confusion about my circumstances have been replaced by an overwhelming appreciation of the here and now. I say a quick, wordless prayer, thankful for a fleeting thought that has brought more clarity than any other. Grateful for this moment I so easily could have missed.
    When the song ends a few minutes later, the room is completely silent. Then another song begins. Halfway through the third song, Michael leans over and puts his lips to my ear. “Like it?” he asks, his voice barely audible. His breath on my neck sends a shiver down my spine. I turn, finding his ear.
    “Yes,” I breathe. And though I want to say more—how magical and significant this feels, how deeply I’m moved by the music, how honored I am that he shared this with me—I don’t, in part because I don’t want to interrupt the silence but mostly because I know words won’t be enough. So I touch my lips to his cheek in a soundless kiss—a silent thank-you—then sit back against