NSFW under the cut.
You’re walking down a deserted, pumpkin-orange-streetlamp lit street when you meet an angel.
You’re twenty-one and you’ve had two beers and you are bored, and she claims the last flashing months of appearing nineteen when you talk to her, really talk to her, because you’re twenty-one and bored and her wings are askew and she’s really very pretty in the dimly twining light around the both of you.
Her voice is high and light, effervescent in the way you and your friends used to pretend when you were imitating obnoxious girls in your high school class. But there’s something mystical about hers, something in the tone that enchants you instead of makes you think she’s a ditzy blonde, though she is in fact blonde. Her hair tumbles in flaxen, abstract waves and kinks around thin shoulders. It could use a brushing, but you can tell it was beautiful once. She smiles at you sweetly as you please, though the image is made somewhat more disturbing by the dirt on her thin, knobby knees and the wings on her back, the elastic kind that go over your shoulder, falling to the side. She tells you she’s an angel with a slight giggle you don’t know what do to with in your mind, and you ask her if she has a place to stay for the night. Not because you’re turned on by her (though if you really admit to yourself, you are), but because there’s something in her eye that looks hopeless, like the end of something.
She hesitates answering by saying simply “oh” and then “wow,” and then she takes your hand in hers, like a little girl might hold on to a mother. “I don’t think I do,” she says, and feeling that this is the strangest night of your life, you lead her cautiously to your apartment.