Angels fall from heaven, but most of them don’t know that. None of my great-grandfather’s descendants were angels, though it’s not something that can be passed down.
“But… I thought angels don’t have, uh, genitals, so they can’t reproduce,” Aaron said, fiddling with the cups of garnishes lining the bar between us. They had three sons and one daughter, six grandchildren, seven great. He learned to affix doors to mid-sized sedans at a Chrysler plant in Missouri. He met my great-grandmother in church, where she led the choir. My angel great-grandfather was raised by a homemaker and a traveling salesman. Mortal body, mundane worries, with the exception of a ticket straight to heaven and the possibility of future falls that would equate to eternal life on earth. One in a million, the rare angel that tumbled from the clouds due to a terrible accident or perceived sin-the story changed depending on my mood-now resigned to a mortal life on earth. This was what I told all the men, what they wanted to hear. “Define angel,” he said, a hint of a grin still hanging on. Aaron’s eyes wandered somewhere beyond my head, perhaps assessing who might’ve heard my declaration and if they would judge his response. Marshmallowy perfume and patchouli-heavy body spray muddied the rich spice of the bourbon in front of me. Prosecco sat uncorked, warming in the tepid swirl of bodies all around us. His smile twitched then flattened as I let the silence hang in the air between us. Tonight’s man-Aaron, as he introduced himself upon pouring my third drink-grinned, lips parted on the edge of a laugh, when I told him. The best ones-the almost, maybe, please be right ones-dared me to prove it. Those men were the typical ones, the wrong ones.
For some, their eyes took on a blood-flushed sheen as they calculated the kind of fuck I’d be. When I made it clear I was serious, they looked at me like I was crazy. The Only Thing Different Will Be The Body by J.A.W.
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