Intermediary Angel

I was sitting in Phil's Diner over on 34th Street, reading the afternoon edition and nursing my fourth cup of coffee; one cream, two sugars. The cold rain was rolling down the window of the decommissioned railroad dining car, causing the lights on the street to warp into funny shapes. It was almost like the beginning of that old show, The Twilight Zone, where the images warped and waved about before coming into focus.

Every once in a while the street outside was illuminated by the bright flash of a lightning strike. At these times, I almost half expected to see some scary looking gremlin looking in at me through the window, just like in that episode with William Shatner flying the red-eye. Instead, I saw a small group of winos huddled in the doorway of the old, boarded up Carmine Theater across the street. Several letters still clung to the marquee. However, there weren't enough to tell me what last played there. Memories lost by an old, run down, decrepit building.

I smiled a little to myself, amused at the thought, "That poor building is just like me."

Sixteen days of my life were missing. They had happened two years ago and I couldn't remember a thing about them. The frustrating part was that those sixteen days changed my life. No. Scratch that. They tore my life apart.

A peal of thunder rolled overhead, shaking me back to reality. Rattles came from the stacks of plates on the counter and I could see little circular ripples on the surface of my drink.

I looked around the diner. During the day, the 24-hour diner was a pretty busy place, but at 3 a.m. there weren't many patrons. There was an old woman in the corner booth talking to herself while munching on a piece of wheat toast. Every once in a while, she would glance over at the entrance as if she were expecting someone to come through the door. A balding man sitting at the breakfast counter, his bulk spilling over the red vinyl stool, shoveled in a double order of "2s"; 2 pancakes, 2 eggs, 2 sausages or bacon. On the stool next to him lay a cane that he obviously used for walking. I had to wonder if it would truly hold him if he had to put all of his weight on it.

The waitress, Estelle, topped off the man's coffee cup as he grunted his thanks. She then looked my direction questioningly, wondering if I needed a refill. I waved her off and went back to reading how badly the Pit Bulls were doing this season. Normally, minor league baseball was essentially an excuse to go out and get drunk with a bunch of your friends. With the way the dogs were playing this year, it was a piss poor excuse.

I took a drink from my cup as I lowered the paper to turn the page and nearly blew coffee out my nose. "What the...!" I blurted.

Sitting in the seat across the table from me was a young woman. She was soaked head to toe from the rain which only served to enhance her striking beauty. Her eyes were such a deep blue they were almost a shade of purple. From behind the rain-slick gatherings of black hair plastered to her forehead, she looked into me with those eyes, right to my very soul and said in a soft voice, "You don't belong here."

I blinked, confused. "What?"

The woman broke off her gaze, looked down at her wet clothing, then scanned the room around her. "I'm sorry," she said, seemingly embarrassed. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Not at all," I replied. "You just startled me, that's all. I didn't hear you come in or sit down."

"Yeah, I do that sometimes," she said with a giggle. She grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table and wiped the rain that was dripping down her cheeks and off her nose. "I got caught in the rain and ducked in here. You looked like a nice man so I sat down." A concerned look came across her face. "I hope I'm not being too forward."

"Oh, no," I said, smiling. "It's been a good, long while since I've engaged in any decent conversation. Half the time, I'm afraid I'll end up like that poor woman back there." I indicated the woman in the corner behind me. She looked over my shoulder and then back at me.

"Why? What's wrong with her?" she asked.

"What's wrong with her? Why, she's cracked. She's always talking to h--"

"Herself" is what I'd started to say but when I craned my neck to look at the nutty crone, she was no longer talking to herself. In fact, it seemed she was looking at the young lady across from me. She had this sort of serene look on her face. I couldn't tell for sure, crazy people are hard to read.

"Never mind," I said, turning back around. Then I was struck by a thought. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, where are my manners? Can I offer you a cup of coffee? You must be freezing in all that wet stuff."

"Yes, please. That would be nice."

I caught Estelle's eye and motioned for a second cup for the young lady. I then took the occasion to actually look her over. She was wearing almost all black, at least on her torso. She had a black spaghetti strap cami on over a black lace bra which barely peeked out over the top. Over this, she wore a cropped fishnet shirt that had gauntlet-style sleeves. The neck was large enough that one side had slipped down off of her right shoulder and the left sleeve was missing the little ring at the end that her middle finger would go through. This one, instead, hung from her wrist as she sat holding her elbows. I've never been a huge fan of the "goth" look, but she wore it as if it were made for her.

The young woman dug in her large black denim purse for a mirror so she could touch up her running makeup. Finally finding a small, heart-shaped compact, she began to primp herself in it.

I was watching a drip from one of the strings of her hair make its way down over her chest, following the curve of her cleavage when my sight-line was broken by Estelle setting the coffee cup down between us. I looked back up at her face and found her looking at me over the top of the compact with a knowing smile.

"Aw, cripes," I thought. "I'm busted." If that were the case, however, she either didn't say anything or didn't mind in the first place.

She leaned forward, picked up the coffee cup by the little ring-hole handle and gingerly took a sip. Finding it not so hot as to burn her mouth, she took a mouthful, closed her eyes and leaned her head back, allowing the hot liquid to run down the back of her throat. I watched, enraptured, as her neck moved with the swallow, thinking how gorgeous that neck was. Every movement was exquisite, every muscle sublime in its tone and definition. I honestly had visions of kissing that neck, of licking it slowly from her collarbone to her jawline until a moan would come out of it.

As the woman brought her chin back down, her tongue snaked out, slowly licking her upper lip and then her lower. As it returned to its starting point, her tongue pulled her bottom lip inward where she delicately bit the edge of it. When her eyes opened, it was the perfect picture of wanton lust. She honestly looked as if she had just had an orgasm.

Jokingly, I asked, "So, was it good for you?" then immediately regretted it, chastising myself for making such a rude remark. I will admit, however, it had been over two years since I'd gotten laid. Guess I was thinking with my other head.

She just looked back at me, smiling, and replied, "Yeah, I like warm things inside me."

I was a little stunned by the double entendre. I'd expected her to get angry at me and tell me off for being a dirty old man. I must have been nearly twice her age. I certainly didn't want to say what was going through my head at that moment. I'm sure it would have pushed my luck right over the edge. But then again, maybe not. Still, I figured it was better to take the safer route and remain gentlemanly.

She took another gulp of coffee, set her cup down and leaned forward saying to me in a near whisper, "Look, don't think me too forward here, but I'm farther away from home than I'd like to be, I have only the clothes I'm wearing with me and despite the nice, warm coffee, I'm freezing. Is there someplace nearby where I can get out of these wet things and dry off a bit?"

"Well, um, my apartment is just around the block," I stuttered. "It's not real tidy at the moment but you're welcome to it. There may be some things of my wife's that would fit you, too."

"Oh, are you married?"

"I was," I replied, trying to keep the pain I felt inside from showing on my face. "She's--, gone now."

"I see."

I folded the newspaper and grabbed my coat and umbrella from the seat next to me. "Let's get you warmed up before you catch your death, shall we?" I said, dropping a ten spot on the table to cover my tab.

The young woman picked up her bag and scooted out of the booth and as we headed for the exit I was able to get a look at what she was wearing below her rib cage. The black skirt she wore clung to her like Saran Wrap and I was pretty sure that wouldn't have changed had it been dry. It hung fairly low on her hips, giving me just the slightest peek at the top of the curve of her rear end. The hem stopped at mid-thigh, not quite covering the tops of the multi-colored striped stockings she had on. They had individual slots for each of her toes and for some reason I found this very endearing. She walked on a pair of black platform heels that looked to be about four inches tall. I gauged this would have put her at about five foot six. "Right about kissing height," I mused. She pushed the door open and we headed out under the awning of the cafe.

A shiver washed over her when the wind hit us. As I placed my coat around her shoulders to help keep off the chill, I noticed that she had a tattoo along her shoulder blades that showed just over the top of her cami. I got just a glimpse of what looked like feathers or something similar before they were covered by the material of the trench. She smiled her thanks as I popped open my umbrella which was sorely inadequate for two people and we headed out, huddled together, into the deluge.

We walked in silence, plodding through the puddles that collected in the low spots along the sidewalk. She had placed her hand in the crook of my elbow and I led her the two blocks to my apartment building dodging to the side once to avoid being splashed by a passing taxi. My curses were lost to the rain as the cab sped away, completely oblivious to the near mishap.

Arriving at the entrance to the building, I let us in the security door with my key. I then led her to the stairwell. "I hope you're not too tired to climb a couple of flights of stairs," I said, cranking my thumb toward the taped up elevator across the lobby. "The lift's been out for six months and the super doesn't seem too keen on fixing it any time soon."

"I think I can manage," she replied without a hint of disappointment.

We ascended the stairs and I directed her through the door emblazoned with a peeling number four on it. Halfway down the hall, I stopped in front of number 407, inserted my key into the dead bolt and turned it. Hearing the bolt snap back into the door, I turned the knob and pushed it open for the young woman to enter.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," I said sheepishly. "I don't usually have company. If I'd known, I would have at least picked up a bit."

The young woman surveyed the small studio for a moment, taking in the small apartment with only a laundry-strewn half-wall separating the tiny sitting area from the even tinier bedroom area. The kitchen, to her right, had three days worth of dirty dishes piled in the sink. She turned around and smiled at me, "It's perfect. I couldn't ask for more. After all, I'm the intruder here. To you, it's home."

"Yeah, but I still feel bad for being a slob. You deserve better."

She looked at me, speaking with her eyes as much as her words, "James, you have nothing to prove to me."

I started, confused. "How did you know my name?"

She glanced down at her feet for a moment, "I saw the name board in the lobby. I have a photographic memory so when I saw your apartment number, I just looked up the name in my head."

"Well, then you have me at a disadvantage," I replied, not quite convinced. "I don't know your name, although I'd like to."

She brought her hand up to her face and pushed her hair behind her ear. "My friends usually call me Angel. I think you qualify as a friend, wouldn't you say?" she said softly. capturing me once again with her gaze. She looked around the apartment quizzically. "Where can I get out of these wet things?"

I thought to myself, "Right there is fine with me," but then pointed off to my left, saying, "The bathroom is through the closet. I'll start the oven to help dry your clothes."

"You're going to cook my clothes?"

I grinned at her, "No, silly. I string a line in the kitchen and open the door to the oven to help dry the clothes I hang on it."

"Oh, I see," she said with a giggle. "You're so smart."

She headed back toward the closet and the small bathroom beyond. "Do you mind if I shower, you know, to help warm me up?"

"Be my guest. Mi casa es su casa."

Angel closed the bathroom door behind her and left me to my thoughts, which were, quite frankly, riddled with sexual connotation. I was trying hard not to think about the way her shoulders curved down across her collarbones and across the top of her breasts. Those beautiful perky B-cup tits that I imagined were topped with the most luscious cherry nipples.

"James," she called from the bathroom door which she'd cracked open enough to hold out her wet wardrobe, "here's my stuff. You hang those up, I'll get in the shower and then I want you to come talk to me, okay?"

"Sure." I went over to the door and collected her wet clothes, I then took them to the kitchen and draped them over the fraying cotton rope above the stove. I opened the oven door a crack to allow the heat to rise through the water-logged material and realized that there were no panties among the garments. So did she hang on to those because they didn't get wet or were there none to begin with?

Hearing the shower start, I was brought out of my contemplation and went back to the closet to search for the box of my wife's things. Quickly locating it, I knocked on the bathroom door.

"You can come in, James," I heard from the other side.

Opening the door while balancing the box on my knee, I stepped into the mist of the bathroom and placed the box on the floor in front of the sink. I then turned around and closed the door again to keep the warmth in the room. With the toilet being the only chair in the room, I closed the seat and sat down looking toward the shower.

The tub was one of those old style free-standing types with the claw foot legs. The frosted vinyl curtain completely wrapped around the inside of the tub, hanging from a cantilevered D-ring that was mounted to the wall.

It was through the translucency of the curtain that I could see Angel's silhouette. She was standing under the water with her head back, allowing the water to wash over her. Periodically, she would run her hands through her hair which had the effect of lifting her breasts slightly.

I cleared my throat. "What did you want to talk about?"

Angel stopped and turned toward me behind the curtain. She paused, as if steeling herself for something then she grasped the edge of the curtain and pulled it aside far enough for her to poke her head out from behind it. This brought her breasts very near the vinyl and I could plainly see her hardened nipples through it. My earlier thoughts had been correct. They were little cherries, ripe, red and just begging for the suction of a mouth to be applied. I quickly looked back to her face as a perceptive smile crossed it. "Dammit, busted again," I thought. "That's twice in one evening."

As quickly as the smile appeared, it faded away again as her face fell into a more melancholy semblance as she asked, "James, why are you sad? I can see it on you, and in you. There is a great weight on your soul and I'm just wondering what it could be."

Reeling from the unexpected change in tone, I stammered, wondering where to even start with this line of questioning. "Uhhh, I'm doing OK. Sure, I may be a little lonely sometimes-- Yeah, I guess I can be a little sad sometimes."

I took a deep breath and slowly blew it out, gathering my thoughts. "I guess it really comes down to this. I miss my wife, I miss her smile, her golden hair, her laugh and the feel of her lips on mine. I miss making love to her on rainy Saturday afternoons. I miss dreaming of how our future would be together."

Angel let the curtain fall closed again and stepped back under the water. "What happened? Why is she not with you?"

I paused and swallowed hard, steeling myself for the story. "Two years ago, Andrea and I were driving down Highway 24 on our way to a nice weekend in the country. I was distracted by something that she was pointing out to me on the side of the road and missed seeing the semi that crossed the center line until it was too late. It hit us head on." I shivered at the memory of that scene and pushed out of my mind as quickly as it had entered.

"I awoke from a coma sixteen days later with barely a scratch on me," I stated plainly, like some college professor might speak of some obscure event he'd read about in some book. "Andrea was gone. There wasn't even a body I could bury. I couldn't afford a proper memorial either. She'd had the money in the family and we hadn't made wills yet. So now the stuff's been in probate going on two years, I'm trying to scrape a living selling articles to the local rags and living in this shit hole." I tried, in vain, to keep the tears from welling in my eyes but I was powerless to stop them.

"The funny thing is," I continued, "we used to talk about what would happen when one of us did die. We'd joked that we'd go at the same time, hanging on for each other, that way we could enter eternity together. I always said that if I went first that I would wait just on the other side for her. Yet, here I am, and she's not. I don't know if she's waiting for me or if it's even possible to wait.

"Although... Every once in a while have a dream. It's always the same. I'm looking down at the ground from high up and I'm moving toward it, not recklessly, just a nice smooth motion. I come down closer and I start to make out stones at regular intervals in a field, a graveyard. Then I notice a person standing. As I get closer, I can see that it's Andrea standing on her grave. She's saying something but I can't hear her. She's just so beautiful I want to reach out and touch her. I reach out, trying to caress her hair. Then I wake up." I dropped my head in my hands, overcome, "I just want to touch her again. God, I just want to feel her in my arms, to love her. I'm so alone now, it's just me and this fucking so-called life."

I sat there for a moment, the tears streaming down my face when I suddenly realized that it was quiet in the room. Angel had turned off the water while I was talking and I hadn't even noticed until then.

"I'm sorry, James," she uttered in a barely audible whisper from the other side of the curtain. I could see by her silhouette that she was holding her elbows in front of her again just like she had in the diner. "Could you hand me the towel, please?" I wasn't sure if the shaking in her voice was due to the chill or if it was emotion.

"Yeah, sorry, I should have laid that out for you." I got up, wiping my face dry with my sleeve, and retrieved the towel from the rack on the wall and held it out to her. Angel's supple arm snaked out from behind the shower curtain, grasped the towel and just held it between us for a moment before she pulled it out of my hand back into the shower with her.

"Right," I said, feeling a little awkward. "I'll just go check on the clothes in the kitchen then."

I turned and left the room and headed into the kitchen to find the clothes still sopping wet. This was going to take all night at this rate.