by F.J. Dagg
Under dim street light, her feet now made sliding scuffs, not crisp prints in the snow that dusted the sidewalk, so worn was she. Then, a warm light lifted her gaze and arrested her weary progress. “Café 633,” read the neon. Two thoughts jostled: Tony’s warning—shun their stimulants, and her own needs—warmth and wakefulness. She went inside.
The comforting smells, the warmth, the soft, inviting bench of an empty booth…oh, to sleep…but she went straight to the counter.
“What’ll you have, honey,” the girl asked.
Laurel wasn’t quite certain. “Mm, just a…plain one, please.” She pointed vaguely at the stacks of white china cups. A fluttering wave of fatigue rushed upward behind her eyes. The girl smiled, motherly, and turned to her work. Cups clattered. Laurel still had some of the money Tony had provided; her chilled fingers fished in the pocket of the denim overalls Jack had stolen for her. She stared at the coins, unsure, as the girl covertly watched.
The girl winked. “It’s on the house, Love,” she whispered, but Laurel paid anyway, with a smile the girl would keep all her days.
Laurel peered into the swiveling black mirror in the white cup, then inhaled of it. Oh, yes. And the warmth of it in her icy hands was very Heaven. Still, everything ached—her feet, her limbs, her eyes—the throbbing knot between her shoulder blades into which she had wound and folded and compressed her wings, knowing she must conceal them, just after she had plunged from Heaven’s lowlands to the dark, aching Earth.
Tony’s warning echoed as she inhaled the cup’s vapors again, and mingled with another’s words—those of an ancient mortal—regarding this brew: “Black as the devil, hot as hell...” Her face became grave and, unbidden, her arm straightened a little to hold the cup away from her. Then the rest of the words came: “Pure as an angel, sweet as Love.” She smiled, exhaled, and took a sip. Oh, indeed.
Now the warmth was inside her, spreading. It reached her heart, where she carried Heaven’s gift, which—if she found the one to whom it belonged, if she delivered it at last—would make all the difference.
Laurel gazed through the plate glass, at the flurrying snow and the blackness beyond. She had another sip, then set the cup down and headed for the door, for there was not a moment to lose.
Copyright 2010 by F.J. Dagg. All rights reserved.
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