When Angels Fall

When We Met

You either need to change your life, or get used to it as it is. I can hear her voice in my head, saying the same thing she always said when I complained. Now that she's gone, I just say it to myself. Because, of course, if I really cared enough to change all of the bad things, I would do it.

But I need the money, which means I need the job, which means I need to show up.

So, five minutes later, I'm in my black and white uniform, my hair is twisted into a bun, and I'm jotting down orders on my little notepad.

This isn't the sort of life I wanted.

"Number 4, extra cream, two straws?" I ask, confirming the order for the couple that looks nervously excited. Probably haven't been together for long. They nod, and I give the order to Erik.

The sort of life I wanted was happier.

I wipe spilled coffee off of one of the round café tables. How do people make such big messes?

The sort of life I wanted had something in it that I could be proud of, like a talent or a relationship, an accomplishment or even just a dream.

I take an order from a middle aged man who stares at my chest and tries to get my number. I have to pretend not to care.

The sort of life I wanted didn't matter, not after she died.

I see two young girls together outside the shop window, walking together, laughing. I tell myself not to cry, otherwise my mascara will start to run, and I don't have time to fix it.

That's what I hate about this job. Not the mascara--the time. There's too much of it, so I end up thinking, and that's never a good idea. I need stop thinking.

...

I look up, and there is a guy about my age looking at me expectantly from across the counter. He probably just placed an order.

"Sorry, could you repeat that?" I ask, trying to make it sound like I need a confirmation, instead of giving away that I wasn't listening. He doesn't say anything, he just leans across the counter. So, just another creep, hitting on his waitress.

Except that he's a hot creep, I realize.

Dark bangs fall in front of dark eyes, which stand out in his porcelain face. Even though he's leaning across the counter, he's still slightly taller than me. I feel my face heat, and I struggle to speak.

I've never seen a mortal this beautiful before.

"Um...your order?" I force out, trying to ignore his steady gaze. 

"I don't need anything," he says in a surprisingly deep voice, standing up straight and crossing his arms, still looking at me.

"In that case, please move," I ask, trying to sound level and calm. "There's a line behind you."

He raises an eyebrow and steps to the side. There's no one behind him. Then, he smiles, and I look around the café to see that the tables are all empty, with no signs of anyone having ever been here. Outside of the windows, there is no one. I don't even hear Erik banging around in the kitchens.

Is this man really a mortal, or am I dreaming again?

He laughs, and suddenly he is gone, but all of the other people are back, and the idle sound of café chatter returns. I look around, but I can't see him anywhere. A woman in her forties steps up to the counter.

"Was that your boyfriend?" she asks me.

"What?"

"That young man that just left! Here, he even left you a rose. How sweet of him, to visit you at work like that. If any man were half that sweet to me, I would be married by now." She pushes a single rose across the counter towards me. It's fresh, blood red, still covered in thorns, as if he cut it from a plant only a minute ago. "Look at that! You're a lucky girl, you know."

I take the rose and drop it into the pocket of my apron, then pretend that nothing happened. "May I take your order, ma'am?" I ask politely. She forgets about the rose, and I do, too, along with the perfect specimen. Because there is no one left. There is only me. He was just another human.

But that evening, when I finish cleaning up and say goodbye to Erik, I find the rose in my pocket. It's less fresh looking than it had been before, but it was still impressively flawless.

When I get home to my small apartment, I fill a glass with water and put the rose in it, setting it on my bedside table.

Nothing else important happens that day. I let my hair fall down out of the updo, I take off my bindings and let my feathered wings unfold. I try not to think of her, but it's hard, because just existing reminds me of her.

I hurry to eat my flowers for dinner, and almost immediately, I fall asleep, swathed in my soft white blankets.

When I wake up the next morning, the rose is dead.