Cleaned up, brushed out, laced tight, I finally looked like someone of value. I questioned why the angel would care, since he could see my shattered soul.
“I prefer a veneer of sanity when I present my finds.”
was as much a whore as if he’d laid me down – which he threatened to do
whenever I balked at his sartorial selections. I held out against
heels. My paranoia prefers sneakers. I accepted flats.
“Who am I meeting?” I didn’t care.
“I thought he was asleep.”
“No, Lucifer sleeps. Satan is far less kind.”
Suddenly, I cared very much.