Angel Monologue

Three things you need to know about angels:
We like our drink ; we don’t have wings. We
can’t breed with humans. They tell you this
in training. It seeps into your head, like rain,
through a wall in need of repointing. On Earth,

you can screw around, don’t get me wrong.
(Latex on.) My human form cuts a dash, a
mop of creamy hair, swings like a swing, foppish,
peaks at the nose. Quite a hit with the world’s
girls. And then I met Rose. And now, I suppose,

I’m just another stat in the data of fools. It’s my
fault. I fell in love. I broke the rules. Damn booze.

They tell you what to do when she walks in with
a pissed-on stick, a big black dot, a full stop to
how it was: You say you’re not ready. “I mean,
look at me...look, we’ll take care of this. I’ll pay.”
Then, if it’s “no way”, all you can do is flee. Hope

for the best. Well, she said, “No way.” And, hark
at my luck, I had something other than a heart
beating hard in my chest. I stuck around. All like:
this is the one I love. Happy families. Maybe, just
maybe, the little mite will come out not so bad – all

right. Ninth months on, the doctor studied my
gargoyle stare. At mine. The baby in bits. Some tests.

The prognosis just killed us. A day, maybe two.
And so, the gut-wrenching decision. Right thing to do.
I never see Rose now. Hope she’s moved on. I did.
Hell, angels and people don’t mix. The resulting
hybrid is always sick. I thought it an urban myth.

I did what I had to. I went to that house. Met that
stranger. A name on a piece of paper. She indicated
her boy, in the corner, playing with a car. The lad
eyeballed me, like, no idea who you are. So she
explained: “This is the man who gave you his little

girl’s liver, so you could live.” With that, poker
faced, he shuffled to me, threw his arms around my

waist. I blubbed a tropical rain. Monsoon tears. His
hair in my hands. It gave me peace. But love’s a pain.