@luceat continued
Even for Manchester it's a beautiful night. Clear, with a density to the air. You can see the stars even in the city.
Not that Jibreel looks up. He, the angel, walks in step with the saint, set on looking where the saint looks.
Midnight Café. It's actually a kebab house, patrons, drunk, singing Sweet Caroline. There is another blonde, a potwash in the back, you can see them ending a phone call through the porthole. Dressed to match Jibreel, not in color but in style: the language that spells out whether or not one belongs.
Among the many things still in purgatorial stasis as chaos wracks the world is the building of an official embassy for the forces of heaven. Jibreel was it - this was it - the whispers and the response.
They find a clean surface and a sense of solitude. They sit, the condiment tray between them like a line in the sand...it becomes clear that this is going to be one of those transitions marked by a nebulous lack of ceremony.
His smile is fond, steady. "How's life?"