Angel

“Ooh, look,” Julie said, “he’s raking by the window.”

“I guess it doesn’t hurt to look, though,” Marlee added with a grin.

Paul put his hands on his hips and struck a mock-managerial pose. “Don’t you people have work to do?” He was enjoying their conversation as much as they were. Their appreciation of Ian’s beauty reinforced his own impressions. What made it even more fun for Paul was that he was the only one in the room who knew how futile their gazing was. He was surprised at how much pleasure he took in sharing a secret with Ian.

“Oh, Paul,” Julie said. “You just don’t understand.”

Paul hummed a little tune as he went into his office.

The Phone Call

“Suppose a Man was carried asleep out of a plain Country amongst the Alps and left there upon the Top of one of the highest Mountains, when he wak’d and look’d about him, he wou’d think himself in an inchanted Country, or carried into another world; every Thing wou’d appear to him so different to what he had ever seen or imagin’d before.”

—Thomas Burnet, The Sacred Theory of the Earth, 1684

The next evening, Paul was sitting in front of the television. He wasn’t so much “watching” as passing the time. When his cell phone rang, he picked up the remote and hit the mute button. He flipped open the phone without looking at the name of the caller.

“Hi, it’s Ian Finnerty.” Ian’s voice was familiar, yet also deeper than Paul remembered it, much more masculine than it seemed when looking at his face.

“How are you doing?” Paul asked, sitting up straight. “Are you in trouble?”

“No. I’m fine. Well, I really want a drink.”

“You’re not going to, are you?”

“I thought maybe I’d call you instead.”

“I’m glad you did,” Paul said as he picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. You know, except for the alcoholism thing. It’s just that all my habits involve drinking. Turn on the TV, pour a drink. That kind of thing. It’s been a long time.”

“How long?”

“Like… ten years, I guess.”

“Ten years? Didn’t you say you were twenty-four?”

“Yeah.”

“You started drinking at fourteen?”

“Yeah, but not seriously. I really got into the swing of things at… probably seventeen. Like, beginning at sixteen and heavily at seventeen.”

“Wow.”

“I was, what do you call it? A prodigy.”

“I guess. How did you manage to start so young?”

“The devil made me do it.”

“No, seriously.”

“Boredom, I guess. No one was watching me.”

“Where was your mother?” Paul asked, hoping he did not sound judgmental.

“She worked two jobs. The rest of the time she was too busy hating my ‘worthless drunk’ dad and being in Christ’s army to pay much attention to anything else.”