The Bishop looked up from his script.
"And you, you are the Son of God?"
"I am the son of Gerald Uffizi," replied Donald.
"You are the Son of Man and the Son of God."
The Bishop felt his own belief pulling him down. He resisted with all his might and all his will. He was not some fool in search of instant redemption. He understood his duties. Most of all, he understood his position. He had a responsibility much larger than himself. He represented much more than himself. But the belief was pulling him down. The belief that was his alone and had no scope beyond his own heart was pulling him down despite all his effort, down to one knee, and pulling his chin down to his chest.
"My Savior," he said.
Donald laughed. "I bet you thought men of God were heroes, but see? We have no choice. You are compelled - compelled. And this makes you beautiful. God is in you and you're beautiful."
"Savior..."
"Sit down, Bishop."
At Donald's words, the weight was lifted, but belief was complete.
"What other questions do you have? I'm a computer programmer. I'm a son and a brother. I'm not God. What else do you want to know?"
"I've seen You all my life," said the Bishop, with all the confidence of an honesty that does not consider its own ramifications, "seen the beauty of You and of Your pain, Your beautiful pain that ends all sin and sorrow. You died that I might live. I serve You."
Donald rose from his seat and offered a packet of Kleenex to the Bishop. When the Bishop made no acknowledgement, Donald pulled out a tissue and daubed his tears.
"I'm serving you," said Donald, smiling easily.
"Hold me or I'll crumble," said the Bishop, and Donald embraced him in his chair. Miss Roc was crying. This was going to make her a star. She had worked so hard for years just to host a second-rate talk show and now success was being handed to her. Her tears were beyond those of joy: they were tears of awe.
Object: sex