Paper Angels


I first saw her on a street corner in San Francisco selling
flowers and giving away copies of the Bhagavad Gita.

I saw her next coming out of a dance studio, her tie-dye t-shirt
torn and sweaty.  She had a purple tattoo of an angel on her
left shoulder.

I saw her in a poet's cafe, drinking a double expresso while
reading Sylvia Plath.

I saw her naked on the stage.  "Experimental Theater," the
flyers read.  "Five bucks, sliding scale."

I saw her sleeping on the sidewalk in Haight-Ashbury.

Nobody knew her real name or where she came from.  Rumors said
she stayed in a flophouse for a few days, then shacked up
with some guy, and then ran off with another guy.  And then
she disappeared.

#

Over lamb chops and cabernet, my wife and I argued about
refinancing our house.  The little chains on her earrings
swung back and forth as she shook her head.  No.

#

All through the day, I kept thinking about the girl.  What if
she was murdered?  In trouble with the law?  Pregnant?
I decided to look for her.  To help her.

#

One of her acquaintances, an actor, told me she volunteered
at a domestic violence shelter.

The woman who ran the shelter was suspicious of me.  "I can't
tell you anything about the women here or the volunteers.
It would put them at risk.  I'm sorry."

Her eyes narrowed to points.

#

"She's visiting her father," a boy said.  "He's in prison."

The boy, no older than thirteen, asked if I wanted to buy
some pot.

"I'm a cop," I said.

"Yeah, right."  The boy took off on his skateboard.  He jumped,
and somehow the skateboard clung to his feet.

#

My wife asked if I liked her new dress.

I told her she'd look prettier without the dress.

It was an old joke between us.  She no longer laughs.

#

Later that night, while my wife and I were making love, I
noticed she was distracted.  I wondered what was on her mind.
The medical bills, her mother's visit next week, her new
manager.

I came.

Afterwards, I thought about the girl.

The room was silent save for my wife's slow breathing.

#

I saw her again in Haight Ashbury.  She was riding a skateboard.
It looked like the one the boy rode.

Our eyes met.

"Do you know what time it is?" she asked.

#

I paid her.

There, in the alley, she knelt on the concrete and took me in
her mouth.

I thought about the holes in the knees of her jeans.

#

When I was close, I grabbed her by the hair.  Her neck tensed,
then relaxed.

I came in her mouth.

#

I couldn't sleep that night.  I got out of bed and found some
paper and a pair of scissors.  I folded the paper and cut out
the design of an angel.

Long ago, when I was a boy, I gave my first love a garland of
paper angels.

#

I saw her again in an African restaurant.  She was a waitress
now, and I saw her almost every day during lunch.  Her name
was Angelique, and as the days and weeks passed, she told me
her story.

#

Angelique's mother married when she was seventeen and pregnant.
She went from city to city, from one man to the next, never
staying more than a few months in one place.

She moved like an autumn leaf, drifting.

Sometimes, the men fell in love with her, and that caused
her pain.  "Don't fall in love with me," she said to them,
but they never listened.

"Don't fall in love with me," Angelique said to me.

She stared at her water glass.

I said nothing.

Slowly, the faintest trace of a smile appeared on her face.

I reached across the table and touched her hand.

#

In the hotel room, I watched her masturbate.  Her left hand
moved beneath the sheets.

She clenched her teeth, held her breath.

She cried out, pulled me to her.

Afterwards, I traced my finger along the line between her
scalp and her forehead.  I licked my finger.

She took my hand and placed it between her legs.

#

My wife mashed her string beans with her spoon.

"Do you love her?" she asked.

#

At the beach, together for the last time, my wife and I listened
to the wind and the crying of the gulls.

#

"Paris," Angelique said.

On her ring finger: a diamond.

#

In our new apartment, I taught Angelique how to cook.

Every time I added an ingredient, she took off one piece
of clothing.

#

I entered her anus slowly.

She gasped, keened, tore at the sheets with her nails.

I sank in all the way.

#

"That was excruciating," she said.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I'm not," she said.

I took her that way again.

She started crying, but told me not to stop.

#

Sometimes, she stared out of the window for hours.

#

I made love to her while she watched television.

The comedian told a joke, and she laughed.  I felt her anal
muscles contract around me.

She didn't come.

#

The spaghetti was overcooked.  Again.

"It's great," I said.

She smiled, kissed me.  She got spaghetti sauce on her nose.

#

When our daughter was five, I taught her how to make a garland
of paper angels.


margiedonnadieu@gmail.com

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