Even With Wings
The angel’s hair was in tangles. Had he done that or a restless night? He struggled to remember, not knowing which he hoped for. It was early. Maybe he was still dreaming, caught in the cobwebs of semi-consciousness. Maybe she wasn’t really there. The breeze from the open window added some tossing to her tangles. This little detail told him he wasn't sleeping and she was real.
She sipped at a coffee and winced, obviously not a fan of his brew. The offending mug was deposited on the windowsill. What need had an angel of coffee anyway? She was always awake.
Her hands moved to her shoulders and his shirt she wore hit the floor. He felt he should avert his eyes; he didn't. She was slight, slender, and yet sinuous. Desire and a protective instinct fought for supremacy in his psyche.
His angel turned and gave a bittersweet smile. She spoke in her soft and strong alto. Nothing personal, but a man just gets in the way. I have work to do, demons to slay; you’d only try to save me. You'd only get hurt.
She turned back to the window and lifted her arms. From her scapulae, bone pierced through the skin, extending and growing until finally two streamlined limbs formed. Flesh covered bone; feathers covered flesh. She was now winged and it was time to go. Her eternal mission would wait no more. She jumped through the open window.
The angel had been right; he acted without thinking and dove after her, intent at rescue and blinded by projected inadequacy.
Even with wings … he couldn't fathom her capable of flight.
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Attributions
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