The Luxury of Time


	You don't need wings to be an angel.

	Flap, flap, flap, I said. The outline was drawn on the cardboard 
and I was waiting for the ink to dry completely. Mind you don't get your 
feet on it; smudge it and I'll kill you. It had taken ages to reproduce 
the designs from the little sketches on my notepad. Drawing up plans are 
one thing; the real product is painstaking work.

	You leaned back on the coffeetable legs, nodding absently. Sitting 
on the cold marble floor, just like a rainy-day craft project, newspaper 
and paints spread out around us. Just the sound of the creaky ceiling fan 
turning, stirring up the air thick with water vapour, tropical humidity. 
We /are/ living along the Equator. I wanted to put on Enya, you said she 
put you to sleep, but I knew you wouldn't mind if I did anyway. I know 
sleep is something you crave, like nicotine and caffeine. But unlike 
cigarettes and coffee, sleep is hard for you to come by. Not that you 
don't have the time, just that it evades you, you and your chronic 
insomnia. It's part of the lifestyle. Part of the reason why we're here, 
idling the weekend away. I'd invite you to my room for an afternoon nap, 
but you would take it the wrong way.

	Pass me the penknife, you said. And I did. Watched as your deft 
hands cut away the unwanted pieces, and lifted up a perfect pair of 
mechanical wings. Well, except that they were cardboard. But nothing gold 
spray paint couldn't fix.

	Flap, flap, flap, I heard you murmur, bringing them up to my back. I 
looked at the screen doors, a faint reflection of myself in the glass 
looking back, your hands holding those wings in place.

	They're beautiful.

	I saw you smile. Just a little smile. But good enough for me.