Next Tuesday
Tuesday was unseasonably warm.
Jill showed up in jean shorts and a tank top, looking effortlessly casual. If she’d been a real woman, Elliot thought, she probably would’ve been fanning herself, complaining about the heat, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand—something human, messy, and real.
But she didn’t.
She looked as pristine as ever. Not a drop out of place. Not even a smudge of shine. Just… lovely.
Sadly, in Elliot’s mind, that made her feel a little farther away.
She arrived promptly at eight and entered an apartment rich with the smells of well-used kitchen.
“I hope you haven’t eaten yet,” Elliot said. “I’ve made extra. Crepes, strawberries, and fresh handmade cream. Orange juice, both with and without pulp, depending on your preference, though I can’t imagine an angel liking pulp.”
Jill raised an eyebrow as she stepped fully inside, taking in the table: a checkered cloth, two plates already warming in the oven, and a vase of slightly wilted daisies in the center.
“I like pulp,” she said, walking toward the table. “It’s honest. Gets stuck in your teeth and reminds you you’re alive.”
Elliot chuckled, setting out the plates. “Of course you’d say that.”
She paused, surveying the scene, the smell, the effort. “You’ve been practicing.”
He shrugged. “Hard to sleep when you’ve got three years to become the kind of man who can own a restaurant.”
She smiled at him. “You know angels don’t really eat, right?”
He stared at her, hands on his hips. “Wait, what?”
“It’s just part of what we are. I don’t taste things. I wasn’t made to enjoy.”
Elliot felt something twist in his chest. He blinked at her. The crepes, the cream, the juice—he looked at all of it like it suddenly meant both everything and nothing. All this time, she’d been sitting with him, accepting his gestures, and experiencing none of it. How many other things could she not feel?
“Well,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I’m serving you breakfast anyway. Sit.”
Jill tilted her head, studying him.
“Even if I can’t taste it?”
“Taste isn’t everything. Textures matter too. That’s why you like pulp.”
“I was just kidding about that,” she said.
“I know.” He pulled out the chair for her.
She sat, slowly, like it was part of a ritual she didn’t yet understand. When she sat, her wings, that had disappeared a week ago, seemed to slightly reappear, almost translucent in the morning light.
Elliot stared at them, wondering if they were truly part of her being after all.
He plated the crepes with careful hands, spooned the strawberries in neat rows, and added a dollop of cream with a little flick of pride.
Then he sat across from her, watching her expression.
She picked up the fork.
And smiled again—not because of the flavor, but because he had made it matter.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“Even if you can’t taste it?”
“It’s pretty. I can appreciate beauty.”
“Me too,” Elliot sighed.
She glanced up at him, a question behind her eyes. But instead of following it, she changed the subject.
“So… how did it go with Tom and Grace?”
“As if you didn’t know!”
“I have my suspicions,” she said, grinning. “But let’s not forget—I’m not the Most High. He knows. I only know what I’m told.”
She tapped her fork once against the plate. “But I’m willing to bet you’re working out the last two weeks of your help desk job.”
“You are correct.”
“I was really hoping it would work out that way.”
“Thank you for doing that for me,” he said softly.
She stopped. Set the fork down. Looked at him.
“Elliot… you don’t think I made that happen, do you?”
He hesitated. “Well… you do perform miracles, so…”
“I have a limited number of things I can do,” she said. “I’m not God. Remember?”
She held his gaze, her tone serious but warm.
“You did the work. I helped them see a future—an answer to their exit strategy. That’s it. The choices were all theirs. And all yours.”
“Really?”
“I do help. But I don’t make people do things. Free will is still free will. And it has to be honored.”
“That’s been a longstanding debate.”
“Only on the Prime Material Plane,” she said, casually. “It’s a fundamental celestial rule.”
“Prime Material?” Elliot asked.
“It’s complex,” Jill said with a small smile. “But basically, everything exists in layers.”
“Like onions?”
“No,” she said. “More like ogres. Haven’t you watched Shrek?”
Elliot blinked. “You’ve seen Shrek?”
“I’ve been on Earth since 2001,” she said. “There’s a whole training module on DreamWorks metaphors. I passed with honors.”
He grinned. “That explains… way too much.”
She sipped her juice—even if she couldn’t taste it—and raised an eyebrow. “Careful, human. I might smite ironically. But really, it’s more like… parallel realities stacked like pages in a book. Some shimmer and shift. Some are fixed. The Prime Material Plane is where you live—where matter behaves mostly as expected, time moves forward, and free will gets all the drama.”
“So… Earth.”
“Earth, and a handful of other places,” she said, nonchalant. “It’s the plane where consequences actually stick. That’s why it matters so much.”
Elliot leaned back in his chair, letting that settle. “You make it sound like my bad decisions are… inter-dimensionally significant.”
“They kind of are,” she said, deadpan.
He blinked. “That’s… a lot of pressure.”
Jill grinned. “Nah. Just means you should enjoy your crepes while you can. Free will includes syrup.”
Elliot shook his head, half-smiling. “You are the strangest… angel I’ve ever met.”
“You haven’t met many angels then.”
“That’s the most factual thing you’ve said to me yet.”
She smiled. “Your morning call is in five minutes.”
Just then Elliot’s watch rang.
“You set an alarm? Are you maturing?” she laughed at him.
Water and wind chimes again.
Elliot cleaned up the dishes and was surprised when she moved in to help him. Her proximity left his hand shaking. She smelled like… fresh snow or mountain air… or maybe clean linen that has been dried in the sunlight.
After they’d cleaned up, they moved to the livingroom. She sat on the sofa watching him, while he sat at his desk, inserting AirPods into his ears.
“So…” she said.
“Yes?” He turned to look at her.
She hesitated, which she never did. “Friday will be my last day with you.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
He froze. “What? Why?”
“Sometimes it doesn’t take much of a nudge. You’re on your way now. You don’t need me anymore. Thank you for making me breakfast. It was… an experience. I need to be going now.”
“Wait. Wait.” His hand went up like he could physically stop what was happening. “I’ve got to make this call. Just—just wait a second. Don’t go. Can I just—can I finish this call?”
She looked at him with something that might have been sadness, if angels felt such things. “I’m sorry, Elliot,” she said gently. “I’ll see you Friday.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Elliot sat staring at the empty sofa.
It was minutes later when he turned in his chair and joined the zoom call as he tried to catch his breath.
“I see you’re back to being late to calls,” Geoff said.
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.
I love food so much that the idea of not being able to taste it feels like such a tragedy 😭