In sixth grade, I was riding my bike through the woods behind the apartments in that hour between dusk and the first stars shining. In the upper window of a townhouse a thirty-something redhead slipped off her dress. Nothing about her tight tan girdle and control-top panty hose seemed enticing. I did not immediately pedal away. She pulled a hairbrush slowly through her tangles, staring into the mirror until she began to cry. Then she broke down sobbing and threw the brush against the wall.
Later that night, I felt guilty. Coach Shirley taught Sunday School so I confessed everything to her the next day.
“David did twice bad as that,” she said, spitting sunflower seeds into an empty can of Orange Crush. “He watched this lady take a shower then had her husband killed so he could move in.”
“Who?” I asked. My family didn’t go to church.
“King David, baby. From the Bible,” she explained. “One time he even danced naked in the street. And God still called him a man after his own heart.”
“Oh,” I told her. “Okay. Thanks.”
I walked away thinking if all that was true, maybe there was hope for me too.