Sometimes, as we're stumbling along in the dark, we hit something good.
I look up to say something but he puts his finger to my lips and whispers, “Don’t talk. You’ll just spoil my fantasy of rescuing an innocent damsel in distress as soon as you open your mouth.
In the long second before everyone absorbs what just happened, I see the angel rolling his eyes heavenward, like a teenager in the presence of overwhelming lameness. Some people just have no sense of gratitude.
I’m fine, Mom. Thanks for asking.” ... “Of course you’re fine.” She keeps walking. “You’re the devil’s bride and these are his creatures.” ... “I’m not the devil’s bride.” “He carried you out of the fire and is letting you visit us from the dead. Who else would have those privileges except his bride?
Was that you, Pooky Bear?
