Confessional

The odor of incense was overwhelming and I felt close to passing out. I wanted just to leave the church and go out to play with my heathen friends, but Sister St. William had always stressed the fundamental importance of making a good confession, and at the age of twelve, I lived in fear and fright of offending any of the good nuns who taught us at St John's.
I felt some trepidation also toward the parish priests, but because they were men and seemed to have a bit more freedom in their daily activities, I thought perhaps they could be more understanding of my small wayward proclivities. After all, hadn't Father Beaumont smoked a cigarette while giving us religious instructions? And each of the priests drove his own car, though none were as nice as Monsignor Seles' Cadillac.
In my lightheadedness, I had not noticed anyone leaving the confessional closest to me, but the door was now open and I thought, at last, I could fulfill my duty and be done with it, though truly, the hardest part would be surviving the fast before communion the next morning.
I walked over and slipped quietly into the confessional. The cool darkness was soothing and as I knelt, waiting for Father Glory to slide the little panel back I tried to remember all my current sins.
I had had impure thoughts about Cindy Ingdall, the lay teacher who assisted Sister St. William, but I didn't have to tell Father Glory who the impure thoughts were actually about. While playing stick-ball during the week, I had struck out, as usual, and I had sworn like some of the truck drivers who ate at Rosie Musto's store. Wednesday night, before going to sleep, I had played with myself...
...and then the odor assaulted my nostrils. It was not the incense. The previous confessor must have passed gas just before leaving the confessional box. It was such an unexpected thing to me, I hadn't realized it when I first knelt on the prie-dieu.

The little panel was sliding back.