The Leiry Loop

We stand by the window, side by side, looking for the white-winged creatures you once called angels—or I imagine you are, since your stare is as distant as the moon at midday. You do not notice, of course, that mine is focused on your disheveled hair that keeps on playing tag with the wind, the strands covering your cheeks, and your ear, and your brows, and your…

I can almost hear your breathing, the painful heaving of your emotional chest—I ask myself, if she falls, will I be there to catch her? Silence is my response, but my answer is clear. If you fall, I will not be there to catch you, not in this lifetime or the next; for I will be the one to push you. I will claim that privilege.

I shake my head in disbelief. I should tell you that you will not see the angels today.

The window is closed now. You are no longer standing beside me, but I still see you—as my mind wants me to see, no, I will stop seeing. I close my eyes—just a second, a mere second—just a fragment of a minute, perhaps shorter, longer, faster, or slower.

No, you will not see the angels today. I will make sure of it.