Saturday the 51th – a postcard story
Closing time. The last eight ball slammed into the right, corner pocket. Beers were drained, and money slapped down on the sweaty table––we were ravenous, cast out into the streets past midnight and looking for greasy hash browns, chicken and waffles.
You slid out of the taxi as if you’d fallen from the sky. I turned around and there you were. I was thinking about food when you dropped into my life, into all our lives. You––with your stomping boots and flowered dress.
Allister said you were an angel; a street angel come to save us. I said there was no such thing––but I was wrong. You with your violin case and love of gin, you said you came to save us all. We bought it, hook and line. We lapped it up, even when you lead us down the dark alley, your hair billowing like the wings you unfurled.
When our world ended, you took us gently, into your version of night. You, the angel of death.