Time-Share Angel (5 of 5)
Many Tuesdays Later
Many Tuesdays Later
Elliott sat in his kitchen watching the clock tick. Tuesdays were his day off, a choice he made weeks ago.
Just in case.
The help desk job was behind him, and he was a happier guy. For the most part.
Except for the lonely ache for the woman who claimed not to be one.
He still thought of her—at odd moments, mostly. While chopping vegetables. While folding laundry. While watching a customer at Salt and Grace light up over something simple, like pie.
He never told anyone about her. Not really.
Some truths were too strange to explain.
And some feelings too sacred to dissect.
So he worked.
He served.
He lived like someone who had been seen.
And every Tuesday at eight, he listened to the quiet.
This day was just like all of the others. He sat alone on his sectional sofa waiting. He sat there until noon.
He had a BLT for lunch, and sat out on his balcony for the afternoon, reading Angels in My Hair by Lorna Byrne.
About four pm, he observed a homeless person turn up his street and he wondered if he might be able to provide some nourishment. He still had sliced tomatoes and bacon left over. He made another quick BLT, wrapped it in a paper towel, and headed out the door, hoping to catch the wanderer.
When he opened the door, she was standing there, hand half-raised to knock.
She was filthy.
Dressed in layered rags—mismatched fabrics that clung to her too loosely. A threadbare coat hung from her shoulders, clearly made for someone twice her size. Her jeans were torn at the knees, crusted with dirt, the hems frayed beyond repair. Her sneakers didn’t match, and neither of them fit. One heel was flattened from being stepped on too many times. The other had laces tied together in a knot that had probably been there for months.
Her hair, once neat and braided, was now a wild tangle—windblown, knotted, streaked with grease. A few strands clung to her cheek where sweat had dried. Her face was sunburned. Her lips cracked.
She looked like someone who hadn’t bathed in weeks.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were Jill’s.
Tired. Wounded. But unmistakable.
She looked up at him, trying to smile, though it faltered halfway there.
“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry I’m late.”
Elliott stared at her, the wrapped sandwich in his hands suddenly feeling sacred.
“Jill?”
She nodded, tears already gathering.
“I got a little lost,” she said. “Turns out walking back from the celestial depot takes longer than you think when you don’t have train fare.”
“Where is the depot?”
“Tibet.”
He stepped forward before she could say another word and wrapped his arms around her—carefully, reverently—like she might break.
“You came back,” he whispered.
“I told you,” she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. “I made a choice.”
“The wish?”
“I wished I had the ability to love you.” She pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. “Here I am. And I love you.”
And in that moment, Elliott understood a truth that spanned every plane of existence.
The most beautiful girl in the world is the one who loves you.
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.