You played the organ that Sunday, as arranged. The night before was a tremulous mess of hope and confusion and fear, and still that nagging doubt- what if you hit the wrong notes, what if you disappoint him, what if what if what if. You tossed and turned and sighed and shivered. You thought of his dark eyes on you, the heat of his hand on your chin, his thumb soft on your lips. “I’ll see you again on Sunday, little dove,” like a promise. Like a threat.