She had with her a copy of Emily Dickinson poetry, of all things, which I found oddly appropriate for a nun. After all, didn’t Emily Dickinson die a... old maid?“Father? I didn’t quite catch your name? Are you a Jesuit?” the nun inquired, still a bit confused.“Father Mark. Let’s leave it at that,” I smiled, though somewhat flirtatiously, just not too brazen about it ... it was intended to sound unintentional and playful.“Okay, Father Mark. I’m Sister Amanda. Nice to meet you. I can’t say that. But of a modern design. She had a classical hour glass figure, with wide shoulders, moving to a narrow waist, and hips that seemed to just explode out from there.She looked back over her shoulder at me. Her eyes looked funny, kind of dreamy like.“What now?”“Take your bra off?” I said, not quite a command.“Yes!” she said. “Okay ... take my bra off.”Her hand reached around behind her, in that impossible way women have of reaching the middle of their back, and her fingers flicked at the catch of. More

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