The Nature of Angels – Lucy W 9-4

When the sky is metallic and she drags mist across them with a magnet in a balloon, he is beside her: identical eyes, anime hair that seems soft enough to calm kittens but she doesn’t touch him. Of course not, she tells her mother through the fog over the lake of tea. She wriggles into her mountain of feathers; she speaks with a profound wisdom in her cheeks. Cooties coat his arms and giggles through the lenses of her female senses even as he climbs to cloud 9 to untangle their playmates and free the atmosphere.

 

In the midst of Winter, many winters in the future with ink still staining her nose, he knocks on her door with a beard and “I’m home” and wood tucked under his belt. She rather feels she relates to both owl, the pussycat and their pea-green boat, perhaps the boat most of all with its swaying smile in the embrace of such domestic bliss. There as a witness. Sitting in the middle of a cottage she glimpsed in a doll’s house. He is welcomed by familiarity in the fire which flares in appreciation of his arrival, the aga which he riddles and grills for thoughts with experience, not faltering and the cat which he pays as much attention to as he does her so that she almost feels it is she beneath his calloused fingers – shedding fur and purring into his lap. He seems to understand the foolishness of her wise, hypothetical actions.

 

He is a rugged pard, prowling into her life through a broken window pane, ebony as his brow. She worries. Full of stitches, she prepares to sew together stone with cracking needle – watch his crumble in a landslide beneath her catching fingers. Flinging his shadows wide across a blotted ceiling, he grabs her arms atop a creaking spinning chair, showing her polaroids of a world she never wanted to see. Colours paint the ground muddy with footprints on the blank masterpiece she worked so hard on until crystalline body parts amongst the mess. He is full of sudden philosophies that make no sense but darken her irises a little more; strolls down dingy alleys, spray paint on her arms. She wishes he’d return to her arms. Wants to bleed the black from his lips until he sings again. But knows that he’s already stuck in the ground, never again to look at the sky he darkened so considerably.

 

After hitting her 20th summer, she sees his shining sun of a head, the flowers he tucks into her hands before running off. He catches her eye with blushes and absurd glares before grabbing his own attention with continued conversation. Time is full of meadows she wraps around herself and calls her cloak; momentary selfies (in swimming costumes obviously, with ice cream she wipes from his chin with spittle and the sun their constant companion) that she will hang in her arteries and on her walls until he too is grey and can complain. She never takes them down, she knows.

 

But then she is thirty, there is someone with her in the middle of nothing, someone real, someone there but he is a brunette with timid mannerisms, a small stature and she loses hope that he’ll ever lead to him. Still, he convinces her to fall with coffee instead of tea. He shows her book pages in wood-work and weather, writes the world on her feet until she finally – finally – lets him ink a star on her finger. They speak words they could never write and read emotions they were never told about.

 

Eventually she is mid-way to four decades. Her stomach has swelled and burst, spraying life, laughter, tears into her mouth and eyes. She doesn’t care though because she’s wondered for too long and – holy – he is here, actually here, she can touch him, feel him, see him, know him –

 

As she cradles him in her arms, he is glass with a pulsing metronome bleeding through her fingertips, and she scolds herself silly for having thought she could predict the nature of angels.