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Moonshine
by Patricia Hanahoe-Dosch The angel enters a room, or tries. She can’t quite fit through the door. She folds her wings tightly across her back but the outer lines, curved like the frame of a violin, still spread behind her, frame her body, translucent with feathers and cream instead of skin. She turns sideways, sidles into the bar. Two men have been watching. Both have imagined her in a different sexual position every seven seconds since she opened the door. It is evening, but the sun has not quite sputtered out, and the angel dearly wants a taste of the local moonshine though she doesn’t quite understand it’s just whiskey. The bartender, a woman, sees only another woman undressed by the eyes of the men watching her flow through the room. Each man’s fantasy centers on his own preference for feathers or cream. One wants to lick froth from her fingers and legs as he watches her wings spread out toward the dying purple horizon. The other wants to cling to her back, arms wrapped around her neck, his body poured between the thrusting pulse of her terrible, white, plumed wings soaring them both into the haze of light dying along the horizon. But the angel sits at the bar, lifts a glass of moonshine into the dim light of the room, and stares in wonder at the orange tint of malted rye. |
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