Sweet nothings

“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.

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