Grace sat quietly, unsure whether a reaction was required. It wasn’t. ‘I made them an Angel, Grace. Do you know what an Angel is?’ ‘Well, Lisa...explained that—’ He wasn’t interested in her response. ‘An Angel, Grace,’ he said, continuing to pace back and forward in front of her, ‘is the seal of approval. Once a woman becomes one of Samuel’s Angels, success is guaranteed. You hear that, Grace? Guaranteed.’ He threw back another throatful of bourbon. ‘How much do you want to be an Angel, Grace?’. She followed the wave forward; steel clicking against stone; cotton, cashmere, silk and leather walking with her in a still sleepy rising gait. The confusion of whether it was night or dawn hung over the airport and for travellers the smell of coffee was the only anchor in a sleepless domain. It was his walk that she noticed from a distance, a slow press into the marble above which strange shoulders carried him forwards amidst the more insistent march of seasoned Europeans. Over fifty of them. She wasn't very tall, I guess roughly 165 cm or 5'4, and had great breasts. They were at least a D cup. Every time I saw her I couldn't help but masturbate while I peeked at her from my bedroom window. Even when I was in my own garden and heard she was in hers as well, I would race up to my room to watch her and jerk off. This was, I think, the fourth summer in a row that it went like this. I had been doing this ever since she moved next door to us with her two sons. She was divorced and worked. Harvey were out of the drive way and off down the road. They rode in silence for what could have been minutes, but felt like hours. Margaret sobbed quietly as she looked out the window. ?Aw, come on, none of that.? Mr. Harvey said, chuckling. ?This could be the last time you ride up front in a truck. You best enjoy it.?Margaret was too busy trying to hold back her tears to question him. Mr. Harvey shrugged, turned on the radio to the news and continued on down the road.
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