2

It’s not a bird.

It’s not a plane.

And it sure as hell isn’t Superman.

“What are you?” I gasp as a naked, bare-chested man/thing covered in dirt rises to one knee from my living room floor before slowly standing, one giant, white wing unfolding behind him.

He’s the most beautiful, chiselled thing I’ve ever seen in real life, and even covered in debris he looks like he’s just materialised off the cover of a romance novel.

And… I’ve definitely had a stroke.

‘The stress of the separation, the smashing of the door, my lonely existence dawning on me, that extra weight around my mid-section… Shit, I’ve had a stroke and I’m in a coma. There’s no other explanation.’

“I think I’ve broken one of my wings,” the creature groans. “It hurts. Can you see?”

Shaking my head, eyes wide, and still clutching the axe, I walk slowly around him and stare at his back, my eyes drifting down to his bare, hard ass before sliding up once more to his wings.

‘May as well just go with it.’

“Yeah, it’s hanging kind of weird.”

“I can move it a bit, so it’s maybe just torn a tendon,” he sighs.

I pinch myself hard on the arm, and wince.

‘Surely if I was in a coma I wouldn’t feel this?’

“Are you going to use that?” He points to the axe.

“Possibly,” I nod, trying to keep a lid on my imminent hysteria and desire to run screaming from the room.

“I’d rather you didn’t. I have a sword around here somewhere,” he adds as an afterthought.

I flick my eyes to the right, near the fireplace, where a glowing sword lies amid the rubble, and begin to edge towards the busted front door.

“Please don’t leave,” he says quietly. “I’m broken and need your help.”

“Broken,” I whisper. “Aren’t we all? Wait, am I dead?”

“I hope not,” he snorts, “that would make this very strange indeed.”

“Indeed,” I repeat.

“You’re alive,” he says gently, a smile hovering on the edge of his lips, “and so am I. Although I’ve just fallen through time and space and crashed through your ceiling and into your living room.”

“Right,” I nod.

“I’m an angel.”

“Sure.”

I shake my head and turn to walk away from him on automatic pilot towards the kitchen, where I know I still have half a bottle of gin. This has been my go-to response every time James denied then later confessed something that hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe. The repetitive routine of preparing a gin keeps my eyes and hands busy while my thoughts whiz like bullets. Right now, it seems like the logical thing to do.

‘This can’t be real. It isn’t real. I’ve suffered a nervous breakdown or something.’

“Angels don’t have abs like that, asses like that — and swords,” I mutter as I pour myself half a glass of gin, add in a dash of mineral water and retrieve some strawberries from the fridge.

‘If I ignore it, this vision, or apparition, or whatever, it might go away.’

He follows me in and watches silently as I slice the fruit carefully before concentrating on dropping the pieces one by one into my glass, where they fizz and bubble before settling on the bottom.

Eventually, I look up.

‘Still here.’

“And last time I looked Angels were, you know, mythical,” I mutter, raising the glass to take a drink.

“May I?” He holds out his hand.

I wordlessly hand him my glass, still so used to putting others' needs ahead of my own.

“Thank you,” he smiles, taking the drink from me and downing it in three gulps, “for giving me your drink. I was so thirsty. Can I make you another?”

“No thank you,” I whisper, shaking my head.

As he hands me back the glass I sit down heavily on a kitchen stool and study the empty vessel, before looking back up at him, all the colour draining from my face.

“You’re real.”

“Last time I looked.”

“You fell through my roof.”

“I did. Can you help with my wing?”

I rise to find him some painkillers before pouring him a glass of cold water as I think through the dozens of things he could be. I mean, I’ve seen enough movies, read enough books. The possibilities were endless.

“Here. Swallow these with some water. They’ll help with the pain, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, it depends on what you really are. If you’re a bird, they might kill you. I don’t know much about the avian species in general. If you’re a government experiment gone rogue there’s a chance you were once a person, so they should be OK.

He shakes his head and takes the pills, mumbling around them that he’s already told me he’s an angel.

“Where the hell am I anyway?” He asks as he reaches for the bottle of gin.

“Not hell,” I shrug as I take the bottle off him and drink the gin straight, “close to it, though, if you ask me. You’re in Smithstone Creek, Minnesota. Population ten thousand, most of whom are assholes.”

“What the fuck have I done now?” He murmurs to himself as I hand him the bottle and he takes a swig.

I try to suppress a chortle.

“Angels don’t drink or swear, either,” I roll my eyes.

“This one does.”

“Maybe that’s why you got kicked out of Heaven.”

“Kicked out,” he says the words slowly, as though tasting them on his tongue to see if they have the ring of truth.

“No. I thought so when I was falling, that perhaps I’d played one too many pranks, told one too many jokes. I’ve been disciplined for this kind of thing before. But the moment I hit the ground the message came through loud and clear.”

“What message?”

“That I’m here to learn.”

“Learn what?”

“I don’t know yet. The message said, ‘learn in preparation for your new role.’ Then I stood up and saw your beautiful face, and I knew everything was going to be fine.”

“Huh.”

“You’ll be the one to teach me.”

“Teach you what?”

“I don’t know.”

I shake my head and walk back through to the living room, muttering to myself.

“It’s going to snow tomorrow night. I’ll need to buy a tarpaulin to cover the roof while I organise repairs.”

“I apologise for the destruction,” he says from behind me, “the last thing I want to do is cause problems for you.”

I jump. I’d half-expected he’d disappear if I focussed on a practical, real task.

Turning, I stare into his beautiful, intense eyes.

“That’s OK,” I sigh. “You just made the physical appearance of the place a pretty good representation of what the house feels like metaphorically anyway — falling down around my ears.”

“You have gorgeous ears,” he says gently.

I shake my head.

“No. I don’t. Look, I’m sure there’s been some kind of mistake. Pretty much all I can teach you is how to be a sarcastic older woman with a penchant for poorly executed and unplanned home renovation, gardening, and art, who dislikes people in general and fantasises about killing her husband and his lover.”

He grins.

“That’s a start. Perhaps my sword will come in handy after all.”

I snort and shake my head, but I can’t help smiling.

“C’mon, let’s take a look at that wing.”