Angels' Dares

“Take me where you’re going,” he commands. “I want to go there, too.” I’m not really headed anywhere, but I’ll make something up for him. He’s the kind of guy for whom I don’t mind fictionalizing.

I’d been hiking through the rain, and I’m dripping on the floor now. Just inside the door and I need to lose a layer. He nods at me discreetly as the party blurs around him. I had told him not to cut his hair.

Halo snipped, he’s incandescent. And the fluttering in the mirror isn’t wings at all, nor robes of whisper-woven cloud. It’s the undulation of man-made fabric, women surrounding him, spinning their skirts ever so slightly to draw his attention, caressing their own necks in absentminded longing for his gaze, pretty pouty lips praying for the benediction of his eyes upon them. Listen closely; that’s the sound of panties falling.

Men like him are always surrounded by women. Like him? As in, men drawn to me and I to them. We fly to each other when flying means falling, and falling to flesh means approaching eden. And I’m not sure exactly what I meant by that except that taking him anywhere would result in lost clothes.

Always, they excuse themselves from their congregations to address me. They prefer not to be overheard when they breathe challenges into my ear, life-sparks into clay. A sculpture this one could mold with sure fingers should he synch their strokes devilishly with the flick of his tongue.

"To a museum. I am going to a museum."

"Are you coming?"