Angel:Patience, Diablo.
I order coffee I don't want from a waitress who looks at my tats like she's memorizing them for a police sketch. My body's staging its own revolution—pulse hammering, sweat under my collar despite the AC, dick hard enough to pound nails. Twenty years of violence and I'm nervous about meeting a five-foot-nothing nurse.
Angel:You look nervous.
I look dangerous. You said so yourself.
Angel:You keep checking your phone. Your leg's bouncing. That's nervous.
Fuck. She really can see me.
Maybe I'm excited.
Angel:About meeting someone you've never seen?
I've seen your hands. Heard your voice. Know you named your vibrator José. That's more intimate than most marriages.
Angel:That's sad.
That's honest.
My phone buzzes with a photo. Her legs under a table. Red dress stopping mid-thigh, and Christ, she's small. Perfect. Those legs have probably run miles in hospital corridors, and all I can think about is them wrapped around—
Jesus.
Angel:You asked what I was wearing.
Another photo. Her hand on the table, those fingers that have been in my fantasies for weeks. There's a slight tremor. She's nervous too.
Angel:Still want to meet me?
I type back even as Miguel's voice echoes in my head: 'Stay away from anyone wearing skulls.' Every text is another betrayal. My thumb hits send anyway, because apparently my dick hasoverridden my hippocampus and is now making executive decisions.
More than ever.
Come inside.
Angel:Not yet.
This is torture. Deliberate, calculated torture. She's here, watching me squirm, sending photos designed to kill me, and I still haven't seen her face.
What else are you wearing?
Angel:Black underwear. Matching set. First time in two years.
For me?
Angel:For confidence. For armor. For the terrible decision I'm about to make.
Which is?
Angel:Walking through that door.
Then walk.
Angel:I can't. Not yet.
Why?
