The angel was not tall. In fact, he measured well below the average height of the human male. His voice tended to pitch high through his nose, but save for infrequent instances when he chanced to hear himself on recordings, he thought of himself as a mellifluous tenor. He swam laps daily at a local gym, his only form of exercise. You could have stopped—or at least significantly slowed—a small-caliber bullet on his glasses; the angel's eyes, blue and beadlike, were terribly astigmatized.
No, he did not have wings, and he once nearly dislocated a guy's jaw for bringing that up.
"God? Who knows," he used to say, throwing in a shrug and watching his listeners' eyes pop out.
© 2014 R. B. Pillay
