“You know, Gabriel Garcia Marquez gave you away,” I tell Gilly, spooning his greying warmth, his knobby spine. “I can tell you’re an angel by the way you smell of flowers.”
Gilly shrugs. Says: “Can you bring me some candy-medicine? I overdid it at the park today.”
Real angels are like that.
Their bones ache.
Their breath smells of peanut butter and baby-aspirin.