She had heard the stories, gone to church, done her time singing and standing and praying in pews. Sunday after Sunday of relentless torture. You're going to hell for this or that. But all she wanted was to enjoy her Saturday night without feeling like she had to spend her hangover listening to the drawling endless sermon about the hell fire that waited for her after her shitty life extinguished. Spoon fed religion her whole life, she didn't quite know what else she would be doing if she wasn't pretending to listen in that garish white building once a week. Still she went.
Pulling out of the drive in her '92 olds, she left church and did the only part of her Sunday morning that she still enjoyed. Buckling her seatbelt in place, and drawing her cigarette from a fresh pack, she lit up before her wheels had even left the hallowed ground. It didn't really bother her, smoking on church premises—it wasn't like she believed anyway. Post church pancakes, that's what she believed in. Breakfast could change your entire week. And this week she needed it. The clouds hung heavy over town day and night, she hadn't seen the stars, hadn't seen the sun. They weren't raining. Just, hanging.
The tiny diner was half-filled with old men sipping coffee alone or in groups. Pretending their wives were still around, their daughters still called, their lives still mattered. The waitresses had on their best 'oh-hai-there-darlin' smiles and walked with a practiced pep in their step. Every single person was the same as they had been last week, and the week before and the week before that. So rarely did anyone new wander in, she wondered if she was stuck in her ways just like the old men were in theirs.
At twenty-four people often looked at her oddly for spending time in an old man's diner. For driving an old lady's car, and for working in a bookstore. But, she liked her quiet life. She didn't call attention to herself, she didn't push the bounds. She simply lived, laughed and read. Besides, whenever she went to the bar with her girlfriends, she was gawked at. She knew she was different, not at all like ordinary women. But that didn't mean she wanted to be treated any differently. She wanted a man to walk up to her and talk to her like she wasn't different. It wasn't ever going to happen. She had settled on that.
It wasn't that she was deformed, nor was she homely. Lana was gorgeous. She didn't look like a Victoria's secret model, she wasn't a head turner. But she had a sort of quiet beauty that sunk into your heart and grabbed you before you knew that you had fallen. Her eyes were bright, full of an untouchable sort of light. Her hair was a deep mahogany, and shone in the way most brown hair didn't. But the real treat was her smile. So soft and teasing, as if she knew something about you that you hadn't even figured out yet. Lana was tall for a girl, just shy of six foot and owned it. She walked with confidence and grace, her full hips swayed perfectly. Always keeping the eyes of men entranced from her perfect ass right down to her delicate ankles. There wasn't any single part of Lana that was overly remarkable, but together she was the image of the perfect woman.
So when she wandered into her diner, and started walking through the booths, it wasn't a surprise to her that everyone waved, smiled or said 'hi'. These were, after all, some of her closest friends. But today was different, today something threw her unexpectedly. There was a man, a very handsome man, sitting in her booth. Sitting, reading a paper, sipping coffee like he had always been there. Like he had always sat at 9:10 in that booth. But he hadn't. And Lana didn't want to sit anywhere else. So perhaps, he would move. Really, who would say no? She liked that booth.
She slid into the booth soundlessly and looked at the newspaper in front of his face. His hands looked calloused, well used, maybe he was a carpenter, or a construction worker? His hair was cut in a boyish, slightly grown out buzz. There was a hint of beard that couldn't possibly have been a five-o'clock shadow this early playing on his jawline.
The corner of the paper flipped down and his bright blue eyes stopped her thoughts in place. He looked pissed, as if she had ruined his day. One eyebrow raised, jaw clamped tight, and a look that screamed 'get the fuck away from here' was all he had to give her. Now that, Lana wasn't used to.
"I'm really sorry to bother you. I know it's silly, but... I really like this booth. Do you think you could sit anywhere else? Please?" Lana drew her eyebrows together and bit her lower lip. She knew it was wrong, but most men became putty in her hands as soon as she busted out the subtle pout.
"Don't even little girl. You think some well-placed pauses, and a little lip bite is going to make me want to move? Just so that you can have some booth you've been eating breakfast in all to yourself. Lana was it? Yeah. No. I'm not going anywhere. But if you'd like to know how I know your name, feel free to keep your seat there and I can show you what a real smile feels like after you have your pancakes." His face never moved from stoic, angry hunk but his tone moved from pissed to playful. She even thought that she might have seen a glint in his eye glow a little brighter.
But how had he known her name? and her order? And her life? What the fuck was going on in Lana's o-so-normal life?
"After breakfast." He moved the corner of the paper back and continued as if she had never sat down. So Lana went on wither her breakfast just as she would have if this stranger hadn't been in her booth. As if she wasn't wondering how in the world he was going to explain any of this after breakfast. She finished her pancakes and paid her bill. He never turned the page of the paper, never really moved except to drink his coffee. He didn't even have food in front of him. When she left the tip on the edge of the table, he simply folded the paper up and left the building.
Lana could only follow. She wanted to know how this stranger knew her. Knew everything about her. He climbed into an absolutely breathtaking black on black Cadillac only after opening the passenger door for her and closing it behind her.
"Michael. I'm an angel. To be perfectly clear, archangel. As in the one with the flaming sword. You know, the bad ass one." He still hadn't changed his tone. But he was in drive, racing down the highway and extending a cigarette to her and lighter was tucked in his palm waiting for her to light up with him.
