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Laughing at my angel.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” I bark at the pair of them. “You never seen a damned tree before?”
The woman reels back in horror, gripping her kid by the wrist as she drags him away.
I turn my eyes back, feeling a stab of panic. A tightening in my chest and a dry croak from my mouth.
She’s gone.
My angel’s disappeared.
Pressing my hands to the thick glass, I peer in, trying to see past the tree, grinding my jaw as my heart sinks.
Typical.
This is why I keep so busy, I tried looking for love all those years ago. Never worked. She just wasn’t there. Not even real.
Oh, I’ve had glimpses of her, whoever she is… the one. But like today, she’s just a phantom. Probably my imagination.
My wishful thinking.
And just when I think it was my mind playing tricks, she’s back again.
Her full figure squeezing through the tiny doorway to the glass display, a step ladder in her hands as she looks up at the tree, determination in her clear blue eyes.
Her blond hair coming out of her bun, strands of it dance around her oval face and she puffs them away as she sets the ladder straight and takes a step to climb up.
She’s young. Probably half my age, but I don’t care about that. There’s something about her. All of her that I need to get closer to. I need to see more of her.
Touch her.
Inhale her.
She stops, and I make another groaning sound as she steps down and bends over, right in front of me.
Fishing into a box for something.
Her thick, firm chest bunches up for me, teasing me through her white on white blouse.
When she stands up again, she looks flushed, giddy. Her cheeks are full of color and as she turns away from me again, I’m sure I see a smile playing on her lips as she climbs back up the ladder.
She’s got white slacks on too, and like her top in the bright lights of the glass display, I can make out the outline of her bra and panties.
Lace, and highlighting the stunning beauty of her natural curves.
They don’t make women like this anymore. And the man upstairs broke the mold once he made this angel.
This is my one chance at something I know I’ll never have again. I have to meet her.
I have to make her mine somehow.
“There he is, that’s the man there,” a voice exclaims.
I turn, feeling my back tighten, and my body tense under my coat, how many more interruptions do I have to have?
“I’m gonna have to ask you to come with me Sir,” a deep voice says, and I spot his flat palm raised and a nightstick in his other hand.
The uniform isn’t a cop, but he has a shiny something on his chest.
“Security,” he announces, followed swiftly by, “Oh! Uh… Mr. Cole. I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t realize…”
I frown, looking him up and down, and then down again at the woman and her kid.
A laugh erupts from the back of my throat.
I’m being ridiculous. Something just happens when people get between me and what I want.
“I’m sorry, Miss?” I offer, fishing for my wallet. I know there’s only one quick way out of this that benefits everybody.
“I thought you were someone else just now, please, forgive my frankness,” I tell her, bowing a little and holding out a handful of Ben Franklin’s my favorite fuck off tickets.
The woman’s eye’s narrow like she’s not gonna play. But once she feels the weight of them in her hand, she’s gone quicker than you could say ‘Ben Franklin was here.’
“We weren’t expecting you so soon,” The security guard says sheepishly, brushing off my interaction with the woman as I slip a couple of bills into his hand as well.
“Merry Christmas,” I announce loudly, then pulling him closer I tell him, “I need you to get me into that display window. Right now, can you do that?” I ask like he’s in on my personal secret already.
“Right away, Sir,” he says with confidence. “Follow me, right this way. I’ll have you inside in a moment,” he adds, jingling a heavy key ring.Chapter ThreeAveryI feel a lump at the back of my throat once I’m alone, I always have a delayed reaction when people like Angela Fitzner or anyone like her have a go at me.
I spend too much time after the fact, rehearsing in my mind what I should have said instead of doing nothing at all.
I resign myself to getting busy, putting up the damned tree. Rather, trying to keep it straight while I start to decorate it.
Before I do anything, I make sure there are no crowds out on the street, don’t want anybody staring at me trying to squeeze into this tiny display window.
I manage to get the tree in, and then I grab the boxes of decorations, bending down to start to sort through them.
