The argument had been stupid and pointless, he admitted to himself. His argument — since she hadn't said a word in the hour in which he had complained bitterly about her parents' old-fashioned ideas of gentility. At least they had informed them of their plans to move in together, as if it were any of their business anyway.

    The Sunday dinner ritual had started in the usual way. Angie's father handed over a can of beer and waved him out to the deck to watch the latest burning in a series of over-done burgers, steaks, or chicken. They'd talked of sports and weather while Angie and her mom caught up on the usual family gossip. Both parents had lost their smiles as first Angie, and then he had tried to explain the economics of cohabitating.
    Dad's only response had been to mention that he had married the girl first. The rest of the visit had been in a strained silence, chewing the shoe-leather tough meat.

    Angie had closed her eyes during his tirade, and then turned to watch the passing scenery of the mountain road. Now, however, the deep sea-green eyes gazed in gentle reproof at him.
    The moon had risen, reflecting off the river below to light the interior of the big SUV. He had come to rest beneath the steering wheel, against the driver's door, but Angie had been wearing her seatbelt. She hung above like a Sistine saint, arms trapped and still crossed as if in benediction.

    Those eyes. The first time they'd met she had been laughing at him, eyes sparkling like emeralds in a brook. Though both had been the dates of other people, he had begged for her phone number, and she had scribbled it in eyeliner on his wrist. His cuff had blurred the last two numbers. After twenty-three different combinations her voice had answered and, with a suddenly queasy stomach, he'd asked her out for coffee.
    The conversation had lasted all day. Feeling faintly ridiculous, he'd kissed her goodnight, on the hand like some Jane Austin hero, chastely. Her eyes had shone in a special way as he turned to leave, that night. He'd come to realize the look was for him alone. When had she last looked at him that way?

    Last spring, he decided. For no reason he'd brought flowers to her work and talked his way into the inner offices to give them to her personally. From behind the glass partition, she had seen him searching for her. Angie stood and smiled and kissed him in full view of her co-workers. Her eyes had had that look, the special gentle one, when he had stepped back from her embrace, reluctantly ending the moment.
    Yes. That had been the last time he'd seen her special glance. Had she stopped looking or had he stopped noticing?

    The breeze had died, no longer rushing in the broken windshield to chill him further. Angie's hair had fallen loose of the barrette and feathered softly around her high cheeks. She was beautiful even now.

    It had been her perfect face that had initially caught his interest. Another couple inches taller and she could have been a cover girl. As it was, she had won every beauty contest in which her mother had entered her. But Angie had only allowed the game until people realized how much more there was lurking behind the face.
    He'd wanted to sleep with the beauty queen, but by the end of the conversation over coffee he'd wanted so much more — maybe forever more.

    Marriage. Her father had mentioned it. Her mother's attitude had said the same. He professed to love their glorious daughter. Would the commitment have been too hard to bear if the prize was a lifetime of being her husband?

    The look. When had he stopped watching for it? Quit tallying the bonus of Angie's approval? He remembered a moment at the beach. She had been giggling over the antics of a pair of toddlers. Had he killed that special look by that stupid comment about the herd mentality of the middle-class families?

    His Angel. Had he clipped her wings with his sarcasm and bitterness? The shadows put depth in the curve of her lips. He remembered sweet kisses, each more breathtaking than the last. When had he stopped counting? How had he let the special go? He begged her forgiveness in a silent grievous cry.

    Voices interrupted his reverie. The truck shuddered as the first rescuer leaned in, his face too bright beyond Angie's shoulder. The tremor released one of her hands to dangle, lightly coolly brushing his cheek. The door wrenched open with a screeching scream. Angie was lifted out and free of her earthly harness. He willed them to be gentle; did they know she was an angel?
    Other hands, warm and vital, boosted him up to other waiting arms. He was laid flat and tucked carefully, reassuring him that she, too, had been treated thusly. Respectfully. Reverently.

    Had he been absolved? Washed clean of blame by her final caress?
    Sending a last thought of his regret and loss with a plea for her forgiveness and mercy, he marveled at how much warmer he felt as they finished zipping his body bag.

The End