Saint Joan of Arc returns from the battlefield.
Inside her armor, she is filthy and bloody.
An arrow has been removed from her shoulder--
It throbs and she is so tired that she would like to lay down in the tall grass and sleep for a week.
Senior commanders, all men, have dismissed her, humored her, and smiled behind their beards at her.
She has broken the siege of Orleans in nine days.
They do not ask her to be a dear and go fetch coffee anymore.
Saints Margaret and Catherine speak to her, as does Michael the Archangel.
When she gets home, she tosses her sword in the back seat of her old Renault with her good arm,
And anticipates that her lover will wash her hair for her, kiss her injured shoulder and whisper, "Never mind. You are my Joan and you are home now."
That's when she sees that someone has spray-painted "dyke" across the driveway.
That's when she sees the ecclesiastics peeking out from behind their curtains all up and down the street, like so many old biddies.
It is the fifteenth century.
Saint Joan of Arc is nineteen years old, and there is a rainbow flag next to her front door.
She has done her duty, given to her by God.
She has saved France from the English.
She has a girlfriend waiting inside, and a wounded shoulder.