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By Michael Fontana
My wife let the angels into the house with the lighting of a candle and an opening of the door at 10:30 p.m. They immediately set upon the bread and butter she offered like they hadn’t had a bite to eat in weeks.
“They’re really hard to see,” I said to my wife.
“Of course,” she said. “They’re just beams of pale light.”
Oh, so that excuses all manner of things then, I sneered to myself. I assumed that the bread and butter they ate transubstantiated into soul energy borne in the form of light.
Anyway, it started getting trickier to handle when the angels began to sleep with me. My wife and I took separate beds years ago. Our sex life had fizzled and we each discovered that we much preferred a good night’s sleep over a good night’s romp in the hay. We were in our late fifties. The spunk just wasn’t there as much as old.
The angels, though, wouldn’t hear of sleeping on the air mattresses we had set up just for them. They liked my bed in particular because it was big and firm, so they crowded in with me. All night long there were these beams of light shooting out from underneath the blankets that I later learned were angel farts. They not only farted there but goosed me and tickled me, which drove me to all kinds of distraction and insomnia in the night.
By morning I confronted my wife. “You let these angels in and all they do is cause havoc.”
“They are good spirits. I invited them in to help us.”
“They are not. They’re pests.”
“Maybe they think you need more attention than I do.”
“Well, I wish they didn’t. They’re your guests, not mine.”
That was the attitude I adopted from then on, that these were not my guests, and so I needn’t even be kind. I made sure to hog the bed when I laid down in it, spreading my arms and legs akimbo. Still, this didn’t faze the angels. They merely slept on top of me, their ethereal weight like small stones upon my skin. The badminton games were infused with angelic cursing, which I couldn’t translate into earthly tongues but just sounded gross with all the slobber in their voices when they spoke. Plus they lit the yard with their continued farts.
Finally, I had enough. I blew out the candle and held the door open. “Get out,” I said to the angels. Only one of them moved past, stealing another crust of bread along the way. Where might be the rest? I ran from room to room in search of them, only to find them all nuzzled under my blankets, no room for me at all, now giggling like school children, now cursing and farting like sailors more than angels.
I didn’t spend a minute more inside that room. I went over to my wife’s room and told her to move over.
“Your guests have thrown me out of my own bed,” I said.
She scooted to one side and I slid in next to her. I couldn’t sleep. I fumed about the angels. My wife was kind enough to rub my neck to try and calm me, but it did little to suffice. I turned to speak to her and was greeted by a warm and loving kiss, which I gratefully returned. Next thing you knew we were making whoopee in her bed, a long time having passed since we had even seen each other naked.
While we lay exhausted afterward, the angels made their procession of light past our door and out of the house entirely.
“Mission accomplished,” my wife said to them as they passed. They winked and farted in commiseration.
#Unreal #Supernatural #Sex #Angels #FlashFiction #Fiction #Writing #Prose #AltLit #AngelStories
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