“Sorry,” my angel says, in her golden halo that is a tad askew. We always meet at this grungy cloud bar just south of Cloud 9. It smells like lost hope and damp feathers.
“I don’t like the way things are,” I say, feeling a lot like that melting ice cube that sits so lonely on the bar.
“But that’s the way they are,” she says.
I want to ask if she misses bei…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to how to love the world to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.