Time-Share Angel (1 of 5)
Tuesday
I wrote this because I wanted to tell a sweet little love story, laced with humor—and what better way than with an angel who thinks bedroom décor should look like cotton candy? And if you’re going to have that, then opposite her, it only made sense to throw in an unkempt, work-from-home IT help desk nerd who just needed a little push. Jill turned out to be exactly what he needed.
Tuesday
Elliot woke up late, threw on a button-up, ran his fingers through greasy hair, poured a cup of cold coffee, and logged on just in time for the morning Zoom call.
“Morning, Elliott,” his boss said. The webcam displayed his name and title: Geoff Snoot, Manager, Help Desk."
“Hi, boss. What’s up?”
“You, barely, I’d guess. You know you’re supposed to be online by eight, right?”
“Sorry, just running a bit late,” Elliott said.
“You know,” Geoff said, “If we’re going to keep working from home, I need everyone to be up and going on time. How many tickets you got in queue?”
Elliott clicked on the ticket dashboard. “Three. One from last night, two from this morning.”
“Get on those after the call,” Geoff said. “And you might want to pluck that potato chip off your face.”
Embarrassed, Elliot touched the right and then the left side of his face, and found it. A crumb.
The meeting was meant to replace the old 15-minute stand-up meetings. Those had never been fifteen minutes back in the office, and they weren’t now. It was thirty-two minutes in when Geoff finally ended the call, having elucidated their minds by describing the exact order in which to click buttons in the ticket system—as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious.
Elliot called the first number on his list, but apparently it was some higher-up who thought Tuesday mornings at 9:15 were a good time to be on the golf course. Elliot couldn’t blame him. He’d have loved to be on a golf course, too.
The second call reached its intended target, but was just as fruitless.
“Okay,” Elliot said. “What do you have on your desktop?”
“My Computer.”
“Oh. You must have an old version of Windows, then?”
“No, I have an Apple.”
“A Macintosh?”
“Yeah.”
“And it has My Computer on the desktop?”
“The Macintosh is my computer. It’s on the top of my desk.”
Elliot pressed the mute button on his headset and then swore for thirty straight seconds. Then he clicked it off.
“Okay, so do you know how to get to Finder?”
There was no answer.
“Hello?”
Still nothing.
He looked over at the phone. The mute button was still on.
“Oh, shit,” Elliot muttered.
He pressed it off.
“Hello?” he asked, his voice suddenly small.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” the customer said, “but I don’t appreciate being sworn at. Do you need medication?”
The rest of his day was not much better.
Around three o’clock, the requests dropped off to nothing, meaning that everyone else working from home had already given up on the day. But this didn’t mean he could quit. He had to sit there jiggling his mouse to prove activity while he watched YouTube videos on his second monitor.
He was just finishing a late lunch, tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. He held the spoon with the last bit of tomato puree in it and said, “I just wish someone saw me. For me.”
Immediately, there was a knock on the door.
Nobody other than the landlord had knocked on his door in seven months. Rent wasn’t overdue, so he scratched his scraggly beard and opened the door.
A beautiful blond girl wearing a white gown stood at his stoop, bearing a bright smile.
There were several things odd about this. First, there was a girl. Second, she was beautiful. Third, she was smiling at him.
Fourth, she was wearing and halo and had feathered white wings.
Oddly enough, the halo and wings were the least unusual of the four.
She took out a clipboard and a quill pen, the feather of which might’ve come from her wings. Both glowed faintly, as did she.
“Hi, Elliott,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Jill. I’m your part-time angel. Kind of a time-share thing. Budget cuts. I’m sure you understand.”
“Part-time?”
“You get me Tuesdays and every other Friday.”
“For what?”
“To help you, of course. Get your life on track. Also… to see you. For you.”
He stared at her in astonishment. Not because she had a halo, wings, a white gown, and a heavenly glow. And not because she was here to serve him every Tuesday and every odd Friday. But because she had heard what he said.
To see him.
For him.
She walked in as if it were her apartment, moved two game controllers off the sofa, and sat down. She looked around, wrinkled her nose slightly, then reached down and picked up a sock from beside his computer chair, holding it delicately between her fingers.
“Ewww,” she said. “Let’s start with tidying up, shall we?”
She snapped her fingers. A brief flash of light followed, blinding Elliot momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, he was certain he had gone insane.
Everything was clean. Everything was put away. The old, ratty sofa was gone—replaced by a white-and-pink striped chaise.
The carpet had vanished, revealing light oak hardwood floors. The blinds were now frilly white curtains with pink tiebacks. The walls were covered in delicate white wallpaper, patterned with tiny carousels.
Even the kitchenette had undergone a makeover—pastel pink cabinets, gold drawer pulls, and a ceramic cookie jar shaped like a lamb.
And the mattress? The twin mattress that had once lived directly on the floor?
Gone.
In its place stood a queen-sized canopy bed draped in translucent white curtains—soft, glowing, and just faintly scented like vanilla.
“What the hell happened to my apartment?”
Jill looked pleased. “We’re elevating your emotional environment. And hell literally had nothing to do with it.”
“It looks like a unicorn exploded in here.”
“You’re welcome.”
Elliot stood in the middle of his transformed apartment, blinking rapidly as if that might revert the pastel nightmare back to its original, comfortably dingy state. Jill, his part-time angel, perched on the edge of the chaise, her wings folded neatly behind her, clipboard resting on her lap. She tapped the quill against her chin, studying him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and determination.
“So,” she said brightly, “what’s next on the agenda? We’ve tackled the physical space—step one to a better you. Now, how about that job? You didn’t seem thrilled on the phone earlier.”
Elliot rubbed his temples, still processing the fact that his sock-strewn bachelor pad now looked like a Pinterest board for shabby chic angelcore. “You heard that? The Zoom call?”
Jill nodded. “I get the highlights. Emotional distress signals, mostly. You were broadcasting ‘I hate my life’ loud and clear around the tomato soup moment.”
“Great,” he muttered, flopping onto the chaise beside her. It was surprisingly comfortable, even if it looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. “So you’re, what, my cosmic therapist now?”
“Part-time cosmic life coach,” she corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard. The quill scratched faintly, leaving a trail of golden ink. “Therapists just listen. I’m here to do.”
“Well, do you have an undo button? It’s not that I’m ungrateful, but this isn’t really my thing.”
“It’s so cute though!” she said, beaming.
“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem. It’s not me.”
“Not your vibe?" Okay, fair,” she said. “I mostly help little girls, so I could be out of practice.”
He looked around again and sighed. “That does not surprise me in the slightest. How about something that speaks a little less like nine-year-old ballerina dreamscape and more like burnt-out 27-year-old man trying not to scream into his sandwich?”
Jill grinned. “I love a mood board. I’ve got just the thing.”
With a dramatic flourish of her quill, Jill made a single, elegant stroke through the air. The apartment shimmered—less like a blinding flash this time, more like the world had blinked and reopened as something… better.
Gone were the carousel wallpaper and cotton candy palette.
In their place: richness, texture, calm.
The walls were now a warm slate gray, framed with walnut trim and soft uplighting. The floor had darkened to polished mahogany, grounding the room in quiet confidence. A deep navy velvet sectional replaced the chaise, paired with a low, matte-black coffee table that looked like it had opinions about jazz. A modular shelf system displayed books with real spines—titles Elliot might actually read someday—and artifacts he’d never collected but somehow recognized: an old film camera, a small model spacecraft, a framed concert ticket stub from a band he used to love.
The kitchenette gleamed—still small, but now outfitted with brushed brass hardware, dark stone countertops, and a French press standing proudly beside a stack of ceramic mugs that didn’t say anything sarcastic on them.
Art adorned the walls—simple, abstract prints in charcoal and copper. One featured the silhouette of a man looking up toward the stars. Another was just a single line forming a circle, but it felt oddly comforting.
The bed—now a proper platform queen with a minimalist headboard—rested under dimmable pendant lights. Crisp white sheets, charcoal blanket. Weighted. Grounded. Intentional.
The whole apartment felt like the kind of place a man lived when he knew who he was—or at least was getting closer.
Elliot looked around, mouth slightly open.
Jill smiled without teasing this time. “Better?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean… I don’t live here. But I’d like to.”
“You do now,” she said, tucking the quill behind her ear. “And if you keep up, maybe one day you’ll believe it.”
The sectional was, somehow, more comfortable than the chaise. Elliot lay down on it, arms folded across his chest, and looked over at her.
“You know, this whole thing is unbelievable.”
Jill shrugged, inspecting her clipboard like this was all in a day’s work. “A lot of people say that when they first meet an angel. I mean, if I had a celestial ticket for every time I heard that, I’d have retired from the corps a few eternities ago.”
“I’m sure,” he said, stretching out across the sectional. “But I totally believe you’re an angel. No problem with that. What’s unbelievable is that a beautiful woman has been in my apartment for more than five minutes and hasn’t run away yet.”
“Well,” Jill said, tilting her head, “it’s probably not believable because it’s not true. I’m not a woman.”
Elliot sat up slightly. “You sure as he—heck look like one.”
She grinned. “That’s just the avatar. Standard issue for assignments involving emotionally stunted men under thirty.”
“So you don’t actually look like this?”
“Not really. I don’t have such a bubble butt, and I’m a little flatter up top than this.”
Elliot blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”
Jill smirked. “Well, I am here to make you feel seen.”
“But you said this is a standard-issue avatar,” Elliot said. “If you really wanted to show me I was seen… you’d have shown up as you. Not as whatever emotionally stunted guys under thirty are supposed to want.”
She lowered the clipboard a fraction and stared at him.
“You’re right.”
She looked at him for a long moment. The smirk faded. So did the glow.
She set the clipboard aside and stood up. And then—without flash, without sound—she changed. Not dramatically. Not like a special effect. More like someone stepping out of a spotlight and into natural light.
Her hair dulled a shade, like morning sunlight instead of a golden halo. Her skin lost its flawless sheen and gained something else—texture, warmth, life. Her eyes stayed the same, but now they held something unshielded. Vulnerable, maybe.
The wings were gone. So was the gown. She wore jeans and a soft gray sweater now—slightly loose at the sleeves, like something someone might wear when they’re tired but still trying. No sparkle. No shimmer. And she wore sneakers.
And yet, somehow, she looked more radiant than ever. Not in the way that made heads turn. In the way that made people stay.
“Better?”
“Mesmerizing in a totally different way,” he said, refusing to look in her eyes.
“It’s more comfortable for me anyway,” she said. “Less energy expended. Is it cool if I show up this way each time?”
“More than cool.”
“Good enough. So, the job—what’s the deal? You’re not exactly radiating passion for the help desk.”
Elliot snorted. “Yeah, well, it pays the bills. Barely. I sit there jiggling my mouse, explaining to people that ‘My Computer’ isn’t an operating system. It’s not like I’m doing rocket surgery.”
Jill tilted her head. Then she smiled. Eventually, she laughed. “I see what you did there. Do you want to do rocket surgery?”
“Just a saying,” he said.
She leaned forward slightly. “What would you do if you could do anything you wanted?”
He looked at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. He changed his mind. It wouldn’t have been a good joke at the moment.
After a long beat, he said, “Anything I want—you mean… for pay, right?”
“Well, yes,” Jill said, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Something something ‘by the sweat of your brow.’ Still in the celestial guidelines, I think.”
“If I could do whatever I wanted?”
Jill watched him closely. “Okay, forget the pay for a second. Forget the sweat. What would you want to do?”
Elliot exhaled through his nose. He stared at the ceiling like it might have the answer etched in the crown molding.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing crazy. I don’t want to be famous. Or rich. I just…”
He hesitated.
“Go ahead,” she prompted.
“I’d like to own a restaurant. Not some five-star fusion place with microgreens and foam. Just a good, solid, family place. Real food. Regulars. A kid’s menu with dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.”
He glanced at her, unsure.
“Something I could run with someone I love. Raise a family above it, maybe. Enough money to pay the bills without sweating every grocery trip. But not so much that I could just phone it in.”
He shrugged. “Hard work doesn’t scare me. I just want it to matter.”
He looked away for a second, then back at her.
“It doesn’t have to matter far and wide. Just… enough. Enough for someone besides me. My own little circle. People who rely on me.”
Jill didn’t speak at first. She closed her clipboard and looked at him, as if debating.
Finally, she said, “That’s the best answer I’ve heard in a hundred years.”
Elliot glanced over at his computer desk—now a polished mahogany piece with a plush leather chair—then into the kitchen, and finally back to Jill.
“Why are you here?”
“I told you,” she said. “To help you out. Get you moving again. Help you find some purpose. It’s not glamorous, but it’s needed.”
“I don’t disagree,” he said. “Gosh, you know, it’s almost dinnertime and I haven’t even offered you a drink. I’m so rude. I don’t even know what’s in my fridge. It’s not even my fridge.”
“There’s a lovely lime seltzer in there,” she said. “I kinda brought it with me. But I’ll share if you pour me one.”
He stood and walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge—and blinked.
Gone were the microwave burritos, the expired ketchup packets, the mystery takeout containers. In their place: rows of fresh produce, neatly stacked ingredients, herbs in little glass jars, and eggs that actually looked like they came from a farmer, not a factory.
He looked back at her. She was still sitting on the sectional, legs tucked under her, calm as anything.
She smiled. “You need to make a few changes for the long term.”
He nodded, said nothing. He pulled out the seltzer, found a crystal goblet he was fairly certain he didn’t own yesterday, and dropped in two perfect cubes of ice before pouring the drink.
He returned to the living room and sat beside her.
“This is kinda nice,” he said, handing it over.
“It is,” she agreed, taking the glass.
He looked around again—at the quiet elegance of his once-disaster apartment, at the soft lighting, at the woman with wings sitting comfortably in his space like she’d always belonged.
“It’ll be weird when I wake up tomorrow and it’s all gone.”
“It’ll be here, but I won’t,” she said. “But I will be back next Tuesday.”
“So I’m on my own this Friday?”
“Yep, but you can do it.”
“You hungry? Do angels get hungry? I can actually cook. I’m pretty good. Or at least I used to be. I’m a little out of practice, but I bet I can make some pancakes without it looking like a unicorn exploded.”
Jill laughed out loud.
Elliot wasn’t sure if all angels laughed like that—light and effortless, like water over wind chimes—or if it was just her.
Either way, it was a sound he knew he’d never forget.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.