Rock walked into the enormous sanctuary a few minutes after his girlfriend Jennifer's adult Sunday School class had begun. About fifteen people were gathered on the front row of ornate, dark oak pews, or on several long rows of steps that led to the pulpit and choir area, or the ten-foot gap inbetween, carpeted in plush maroon.
The church's pastor Gregg Larson led the class, and Rock could see Larson's attention turn to him as he approached down the center aisle. Brother Gregg smiled and said, "Hey, look who's here. Rock himself."
There were smiling faces all around him, and Rock blushed from self-conscious embarrassment as he sat next to Jennifer on the soft carpet.
Larson held a tattered red umbrella, half opened over his head, but Rock's thoughts had been diverted by a distinct smell he recognized as his own unbathed crotch. It stunk as if he had not showered in days, and he assumed Jennifer also could smell it. He wished he could leave before anyone else noticed, but Rock knew any opportunity would be awkward at best.
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