Queen Bee Goes Home Again by Haywood Smith

over thirty in the congregation. He got so much food, he had to buy a small chest freezer to hold it.
    (When I heard the delivery truck rumble in next door, I just happened to look through the glass pane in my apartment door and see them unload the freezer.)
    Once Connor Allen was finally settled in and working at the church, I prayed that my adolescent emotions would wane. Miss Mamie and I had the whole of 1431 Green Street to disinfect, which should have provided an excellent distraction, but every time my mind wandered off course, it zeroed in on the gorgeous man next door.
    So I scrubbed harder and sang good old, foot-stomping hymns to counteract it as Miss Mamie joined in.
    Of all times to have my libido wake up! I’d never felt that way with my ex. But the feelings Connor Allen stirred still felt familiar, and very seductive.
    Logic told me that everything I knew about Connor was surface. And as for his marriage, there were two sides to every story. For all I knew, he could be a saint one minute, then a monster the next. I’d met more than one minister who was awful to his wife and family.
    Yet he seemed like a true holy man.
    But trying to be logical about this didn’t help.
    The one thing I knew was that I was not the woman for that gorgeous man. That gorgeous, intelligent, honest, sexy man.
    We won’t even go into the obscene fanny tattoo I’d gotten during a drunken impulse on my honeymoon with the husband of my youth: two red cherries and “eat me” in script. I know. Vulgar to the max, but I was young and foolish. Marrying Phil was proof enough of that. And we won’t go into the fact that it had gone a bit wrinkly when I’d lost my middle-aged spread, thanks to the divorce.
    So the following night, I tried reading a few “sweet” historical romance novels at bedtime to ease the tension, but instead of transferring my crush to the heroes, all I could see was Connor Allen’s face in the stories.
    Which was definitely a sin, which only confirmed how wrong the whole situation was.
    I took it up with God, but He just sat there, still and quiet, in silence. Not very nice, if you ask me.
    I hated it when I was supposed to wait. I do not wait well at all.
    I mean, couldn’t the All-knowing share a way out of this? I’m just saying.
    Lead us not into temptation, remember?
    Nothing.
    Frankly, I think putting Connor Allen right next door was a pretty mean joke, but then again, I was the one who’d done it, so there you are.
    I also hate irony when I’m the one who has to live it, which seems to happen all the time.
    So when that still, small inner voice clammed up on me, I sought God’s direction in scripture, focusing on the verses about holiness and purity, which just depressed me so much in my falling short that I had to quit that, too, or face major depression in spite of my antidepressants (loads of escitalopram and trazodone, with a top-off of generic Wellbutrin).
    My GP said that America was one big unsupervised study of the long-term effects of antidepressants, but I silenced her with, “Shut up and give me the prescriptions, or else.”
    Apparently, the threat of violence by the patient is enough medical justification to continue them, because she quickly gave me the scrips. Ditto with my bioidentical estrogen.
    By the middle of my third week back home, the Mame and I had finished scrubbing down most of the roasting third floor with Windex, Clorox Clean-Up, or CitriSafe nontoxic mold killer and were working side by side on our kneeling pads in the hallway, doing the baseboards, when she leaned back and wagged her hand my way. “I don’t know what you’ve been takin’, daughter mine, but I sure do wish you’d give me some. You’re wearing me out. This isn’t a race, you know.”
    I couldn’t stop the telltale flood of embarrassment that further reddened my chest and face. I leaned back, too, swiping a stray