VIII. Iofiel-Archangel whose name means "beauty of God."
I sat there listening to them talk about me as if I was not there. My manager, Sheila , every so often would look up at me with her beady brown eyes. The left one was a little lazy. To be honest it was a little digusting. And I could never tell if she was actually looking at me or at my shoulder. She gave me a tight smile then returned to the conversation with Phillipe. Phillipe is the director of the current show I am supposed to be walking in. Some benefit,I believe. Africa. East Asia. Whatever.
I needed a manicure and fresh water. There was no one around for either. Shame. I looked back over at the two. They were still bickering. The wah-wah of the voices turned into actual words once I started to pay attention.
"You know she always walks last." Sheila lit a marlboro menthol 100.She liked to pretend she wasn't smoking. So the cigarette tended to burn out before she could get two or three drags from it. Phillipe seemed stressed. He ran a hand through his hair. It needed a trim. He knew this, of course.
"Oui. I do. I understand. But, the design is meant for an angel. A woman who is gentle and fair. Not that Ms.LeCartier is not an angelic-dear. She is more, shall we say, aggressive than I need in that. I can put her in the second to last . Juxtapose. Be my demoness."
Phillipe was such a girl. If they only knew. I gave them both a secret smile which they took as compliance.
"See! She agrees!"" Phillipe shrieked. He jumped up and kissed both of my cheeks.
I sat there toying with my bracelet, my broken halo.
There was a small mirror behind the wet bar, I caught sight of my reflection.
Bright blue eyes stared back at me.
Sometimes, I remember the angel, Iofiel.
I blinked. Morrighan LeCartier was all I saw in the mirror.
How I hate the groveling of humans.
I sat there listening to them talk about me as if I was not there. My manager, Sheila , every so often would look up at me with her beady brown eyes. The left one was a little lazy. To be honest it was a little digusting. And I could never tell if she was actually looking at me or at my shoulder. She gave me a tight smile then returned to the conversation with Phillipe. Phillipe is the director of the current show I am supposed to be walking in. Some benefit,I believe. Africa. East Asia. Whatever.
I needed a manicure and fresh water. There was no one around for either. Shame. I looked back over at the two. They were still bickering. The wah-wah of the voices turned into actual words once I started to pay attention.
"You know she always walks last." Sheila lit a marlboro menthol 100.She liked to pretend she wasn't smoking. So the cigarette tended to burn out before she could get two or three drags from it. Phillipe seemed stressed. He ran a hand through his hair. It needed a trim. He knew this, of course.
"Oui. I do. I understand. But, the design is meant for an angel. A woman who is gentle and fair. Not that Ms.LeCartier is not an angelic-dear. She is more, shall we say, aggressive than I need in that. I can put her in the second to last . Juxtapose. Be my demoness."
Phillipe was such a girl. If they only knew. I gave them both a secret smile which they took as compliance.
"See! She agrees!"" Phillipe shrieked. He jumped up and kissed both of my cheeks.
I sat there toying with my bracelet, my broken halo.
There was a small mirror behind the wet bar, I caught sight of my reflection.
Bright blue eyes stared back at me.
Sometimes, I remember the angel, Iofiel.
I blinked. Morrighan LeCartier was all I saw in the mirror.
How I hate the groveling of humans.