The Gift

Hugh Blackthorne
Feb 2 · 1 min read
Image by Efes Kitap via Pixabay

You don’t get the angel you order — you get the angel you need. Funny trick, that.

With black-streaked blond hair, leather cuffs, and a lavender god is dead t-shirt, there he sits at the kitchen table, drinking my tea and eating Jaffa cakes like he’d been born to it.

What the hell have I done to deserve this? All I did was get the washing in from the garden.

Soon, he takes my car, cigarettes, and all sense of reason, but plays a fierce Händel with my toddler on his knee, awakening our old piano from slumber.

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