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Guy Anthony de Marco
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angel3.jpg
Art by Lee Kuruganti

Angelic
 
Guy Anthony de Marco

When she turned to him, he could see it in her eyes. Little drops of salty dew clung to the curve of her lids, dancing and refracting the light before a suicide plunge off the springboard lashes. He knew she loved him. What she said next, however, confused him to no end.

 

"I don't want to see you anymore. Not ever." Quick intake of breath slurping through her now runny nose. "Don't come here again."

 

Her eyes locked with his for the shortest eternity, then broke as she spun on her 4-inch patent leather thigh-highs and shut her front door with an echo of finality.

 

"What the fuck just happened?" the man said to the oak door. It didn't answer. He turned and left, leaving his broken heart by the wooly welcome mat and the red-stained milk box.

 

# # #

 

It was the thigh-high boots that had attracted his attention the first time they had met. Actually, it attracted everyone's attention, male and female. Long, delicately-curving calves, toned and muscled thighs, and the rest barely cut short by the ultra-mini skirt and bursting corset. Sitting at the bar, those angelic legs crossed enough so your eyes desperately tried to penetrate the shadows between. One elbow on the bar, the other bent while driving tequila through ruby lips. A black explosion of ringlets framing a ghostly pale face, eyes mascara'd to pitch with a crescent of shocking blue flitting through the storm.

 

Men swirled around her, blown by the crazed atmosphere of her presence. Girlfriends ditched, faces slapped, one boyfriend dumped, and several leering gents ran off to a bathroom stall or to their significant others. Sex would be closed-eye this evening, and the rippling presence of the strange woman would be felt far from the stool she occupied.

 

One man, a stocky, bespectacled geek, directly across the sticky bar from her, downed his fifth shot of Jack.

 

He had watched the lady enter the bar as if she owned it and everything within its walls. She stealthily ignored everyone, which in turn drew the most attention. He admired those legs and her cleavage for a fleeting moment, then turned his attention to the liquid conversation in his shot glass, which had been refilled in the time he had looked at the angel.

 

One by one, men and women approached the throne to tempt the goddess. One by one, they were sent in flames back to the world of mortals. Each suitor was appraised by the flash of blue. The slightest of head movements told them no. Burned by her rejection, they cowered from her radiance to lurk in the shadow of vinyl-covered booths, whispers and hate clung to the safety of dimness.

 

Even the bartenders were waiting their turn at the wheel of fate. The bespectacled man could not get a refill, so he tossed two Jacksons on the empty glasses of Jack and made for the door.

 

The sounds in the bar began to sputter and fade as the patrons watched the angelic figure track the movement of the bespectacled geek as he pushed his way out the door. The old rusted springs pushed back until they were freed, and they happily creaked as they converted their meal of potential energy back to kinetic. The door slammed as the springs were spent.

 

He began reaching for his keys, then thought better of it. He was not a drinker, and his hands acted like a remote cadaver's limbs, dropping his keys in a puddle of slush. He bent to pick them up when he was hit from behind. His balance fled, and he was splayed out in the ruts of dirty snow and water. He lay there for almost a full minute, waiting for his wallet to be jerked from his corduroy pocket.

 

"Are you all right?" A woman's voice, British and proper. Out of place on Bourbon Street on a Saturday in Memphis.

 

He slowly pushed his pudgy torso up, grasping for his missing glasses, and then stood, wiping the already freezing slush from his knees. "I'm very sorry; I shouldn't have stopped right in front of you. It's my fault." He looked up from his knees to the angel.

 

He never heard the door open, but here she was, standing so very close. Her breath swirled from between perfect teeth, her scent of lilacs and copper enveloped him like a blanket. The cold of the evening was kept at bay. More blue peered from under her upper lid, and her face sculpted itself into a smile. "I really am sorry, I was looking at your shoes and didn't realize you had stopped."

 

He looked down to his canvas Chuck Taylor's, then scaled her legs from toe to the hint of a lacy red thong peering at him from the severe line of her mini-skirt. He blushed, matching its shade. Forced his eyes back to his sneakers and mumbled something about being sorry for being rude. Her clear laughter made the temperature rise even further.

 

"My dear, you are a gentleman. I haven't met one in such a long time." Blue flashing over his face as her eyes illuminated him. He almost believed she was using x-ray vision to peer into the little closets hiding in his soul. "Let me warm you up and buy you a drink. It would make me feel better about bowling you over."

 

He had no choice. His body would have divorced him on the spot if he had said no.

 

# # #

 

They spent two hours at the next smoky bar talking, ten minutes in a taxi and two days in her bed.

 

# # #

 

When he woke, it was in his own bed, alone. The old wind-up alarm clock had died at three, but was it AM or PM? He had no recollection of how he got there, but did have fleeting glimpses of Caligula-esque debauchery with the woman. She was insatiable, and she made him rise up within minutes of ejaculating. His ego broke free as he performed like the god of porn. He was very sore, scratched all over from her ruby nails and pearl teeth.

 

It must’ve been a dream, he thought wistfully. Fucking cat must have tried to wake me from my first time getting drunk. Scratched me up. His cat sat on the edge of his bed, looking scandalized.

 

Three papers waited patiently outside his front door. Three full days. The man was confused, then passed on the idea he had really ridden a goddess. Never again would he get drunk. He bent over to scoop up the damp newspapers when he heard a faintly familiar chuckle.

 

"I always get to see you at just the right moments." Blood red thigh-highs today, crowned by a latex red mini-dress. Definitely no undergarments lurking beneath. Nipples straining themselves in the chilly evening air. "I wanted to see you again."

 

# # #

 

Three days this time. He did remember to call in sick. His neighbors could vouch for all the moaning and banging noises.

 

# # #

 

Things were different, he thought. The sex was Herculean, but the time between was spent caressing and talking. He could tell she was both confused and bemused. He heard about London and Kent, stints in colleges across the countryside but no degree, and the other men in her life. He didn't know why, but it was fine to hear her talk about past lovers. His own performance made him confident, and she was lying beside him as he traced her areola with his fingertips. The old flings were gone. She was here, he was happy.

 

She heard about his lack of social skills, his soon-to-be-outsourced programming job, and his aspirations to find someone to spend his remaining life with. Minute by minute, his sharing relaxed her to the point that their sexual sessions were more lovemaking than fucking.

 

After each orgasm, she began to actually cry. He asked, but her nod stopped him cold. She just wrapped herself around him and wept. He held her tightly. Nothing would get past him to trouble her this evening.

 

She slept until the sun nested in the hills beyond his window.

 

When he walked her to her front door, she told him she never wanted to see him again, but her blue eyes spoke differently.

 

# # #

 

He spent the next day in a daze. He had found the perfect woman and lost her within a week. His ego began to argue with him, and he found himself yelling at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He didn't deserve her, his ego maintained. I'm a good person, he retorted. A bloodied left fist ended the argument for good, covering the floor with mirrored shards that reflected his mental state.

 

He eventually lay in a heap on his bed, moping and crying in turns. Every so often he thought he sensed her, and her scent wafted in and out like waves. He was drowning in her, and he was lost. Eventually his ego mounted a pre-frontal lobe attack, and managed to convince him to go after her.

 

# # #

 

When he arrived at her house, there was a rollicking party in progress.

 

He recognized some of the guests from the bar where he had met his angel. They were all paired up with too-good-looking dark-haired Goths. Booze, semen and saliva were flowing in relentless torrents from all angles.

 

He walked through the crowd looking for his love. Too much bass was pumping behind the Blue Man Group tune on the stereo. He felt out of place, pushing his glasses up on his bridge. He was the only one fully-clothed, but nobody noticed.

 

From the top step, she saw him. Her look was not what he expected. It was of sheer horror. Her lips moved, and somehow her clipped accent crashed through the music and moans to call him upstairs. He moved at once.

 

She wore a bathrobe. Smiling, he mounted the stairs. It was the sexiest she had ever looked.

 

She took his arm and steered him into a candle-lit bedroom. The walls and carpet were red, and gauze curtains drifted lazily. Glints of seashells, jewelry, and massage oils created a pattern on the surroundings.

 

It was the bedroom of a goddess, and everything was perfect except for the man splayed on the bed, his torso ripped open, dripping silently onto the sheets and carpet.

 

"You shouldn't have come," she whispered. The music had faded to a buzz, and the moans from downstairs now had a note of frantic desperation. For once, he and his ego agreed with her.

 

"You were not to be harmed." Her bathrobe fell away, revealing her blood-sprayed skin. "You made me . . . feel again. It's been so long."

 

He forced himself to look into her eyes. "I love you. I will never be happy with anyone else." He looked down at his sneakers, a memory made him smile. "Will it hurt?"

 

"No, it won't. I love you, too. I want to be with you, but I don't want you to suffer like we do." She smiled, her teeth still white as pearls, but curiously sharp. "Let's take a bath, shall we?"

 

# # #

 

The house was razed by the owner after the police were done inspecting it for clues. The coroner noted that some kind of animal must have attacked them. Sixty people, all dead from mutilations too ghastly for even the most hardened officer to endure. All the faces twisted in horror, except for one. One dumpy, bespectacled loner who was found in the Jacuzzi, his throat missing but a smile still on his lips, and his heart intact.

 

 

Guy Anthony De Marco resides on a ranch surrounded by zombies and cattle. His kids enjoy burning voodoo dolls, and his wife puts up with the zombies because the view is wonderful off the back porch. Guy attempts to maintain a website at http://www.GuyAnthonyDeMarco.com, but mischievous ghosts keep messing things up.

 

 

 

 

 

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