Enticing An Angel (17 page)

"Melanie…"

"OUT!"

The second loud outburst once again told
Michael that this little lady meant business, and he merely shook
his head in confusion. Grabbing his sketchbook from where she had
dropped it, he turned and opened the door. He looked back once, but
Melanie glared, pointed her finger to the outside, and when he
didn’t move fast enough, she let the sketch in her hand fall to the
ground, and walked rapidly to him.

She pushed at him and Michael complied by
stepping outside the loft. She didn’t have the strength to push him
if he did not want her to, but she was in no mood to be trifled
with. The door slammed behind him with force, and when it did, he
turned back. He was tempted to knock, but shook his head.

Putting his hand on the door, he felt the
wood with his palm. It was old. Not as old as the building, but
these units must have been thirty years old and the door felt as if
it was the original. He admired the quality and gazed as the
various layers of paint that were chipping off in areas. Taking a
deep sigh, he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Melanie. I never meant to hurt
you," he said, as he pulled his hand from the door.

It was not said as a loud outburst, but it
was not whispered either. It was a slightly louder than normal
voice, but he was uncertain whether she had heard it. If she had,
she didn’t give any signal to that effect. Michael shook his head,
turned around, and headed down the stairs.

Inside the loft, Melanie was curled up on her
couch with a throw pillow in her hands. It was a poor replacement
for Michael, but it gave her something to wrap her arms around. She
rocked slightly as she looked to the sketch that lay
unceremoniously on the floor. It was at an odd angle to her, and
she had a difficult time seeing the design; it was beautiful, of
that she was certain.

After several minutes, she put the pillow
aside and left the couch. Approaching the sketch, she made no
attempt to retrieve it or even move it. Instead, she walked around
the edges and looked at it from several angles.

The brightness of the pens' ink glimmered
with the light of her loft. He had attempted to match her
brightness and failed. She could understand the failure, but
admired the attempt.

"Wisps," she whispered to herself, as she saw
how he had faded away the image to blend in with the buildings
background.

Why didn't I think of that?
she asked
herself.

She wiped a tear away and sat cross-legged in
front of the image. She had tried to rip it carefully from his book
and had mostly succeeded. Her anger at the time had been genuine,
but it had also been tinged with a sadness that had driven her
crazy. She had been caught somewhere between anger at having her
design used in such a manner and frustration from her feelings of
last week. She was angry with Mrs. Angel, angry with herself for
not standing her ground, and angry with Michael for not being
psychic; why had he not know exactly what was wrong and magically
fixed it?

Well, it was over now, and that thought
saddened her. She had overreacted; she knew that. That first blast
of anger had been a small triggering event blown vastly out of
proportion by her stressed state, but now, as she thought about it,
the fight would serve a better purpose; it was better for him to
believe she hated him than to know more about her. Still, she felt
like a bitch and began to cry.

The image before her was drawn skillfully,
and she knew he had done it out of love. That thought killed her.
He could not have known it would anger her, and she fully believed
him when he said it was for demonstration purposes. He must have
shown two, three, or perhaps more mockups. Hell for all she knew
the company didn't even like her design.

As scenarios played through her mind, she
hated herself more. She looked to her phone. It was exactly where
it was supposed to be. She thought about calling Michael, but she
knew she wouldn’t. For as much as she hated Mrs. Angel, she knew
Michael deserved better.

Coward
, she thought.

She stood and went to her own canvas. It was
bathed in light as if it was the most important thing in the world,
and as Melanie stepped in front of it, her pupils constricted
rapidly turning the outside world dark. In a matter of seconds, it
was hard to see the rest of the loft. Her head tilted back and
forth and she considered her work. It was an expression and meant
to represent truth as it fades and swirls and moves through
life.

Melanie, looked back to her phone again. She
was certain it was where it should be, but she could no longer see
it. However, she still would not call, but at least she admitted a
few truths to herself. She was a coward. She was indeed a very
suitable match for Michael; it was him that might be lacking. It
was his censure that she feared; and she didn't know if she had the
strength to watch him shake his head in judgment and leave her.

"It's just better this way," she said to
herself and she put her finger into the poisonous paint and began
to swirl it. She cared nothing for the lead content, and as she
moved the oils, she added more fingers. She needed wisps, and she
set about making them.

Susan watched her son move morosely about her
kitchen. He was a handsome man, made even more so in his Sunday
best. Currently he was upset, she could see that, but he had yet to
talk about it. He had just called the previous evening and asked to
join her for church. It was an unusual request, but when Mrs. Angel
could get one of her boys to a sermon, she gladly took it without
question; those would come afterwards; they always did.

For the entirety of the service, he had
remained stoic. Afterwards, he had been minimally sociable, even
when people came to say "hello." It had been a long time since they
had seen him. Michael of course was polite, but withdrawn, and
Susan was glad to get him back to her house.

She began to make tea and coffee and then
suggested lunch. Michael passively let her make the meal. He didn't
offer to help; he just remained thoughtful and lethargic. After
several minutes, he spoke.

"Melanie and I broke up," he said.

"Oh," she replied. She was facing away from
him and hid her smile well. It was not a large smile, but it did
appear when she heard the good news.

"I'm sorry to hear that. How did that
happen?" she asked.

"It was my fault really. I just did something
stupid," Michael said.

"Oh?" his mother replied with confusion and
curiosity as she turned to him.

Michael caught her look and absently shrugged
his shoulders. He then proceeded to tell her about the events of
Friday night. When he was done, his mother was livid. She clenched
her teeth and turned back to her lunch preparations.

That little tramp
, she thought as she
moved about the kitchen.

She understood exactly what Melanie had done,
and her fists clenched with rage. Melanie hadn’t wanted to be the
bad guy, she had made that clear, so she had waited until Michael
made the tiniest error and used it as an excuse to blame this on
him. Hell, she probably didn't even care about her stupid
artwork.

Susan wanted to smack the girl, but knew that
would not be possible. The joy she had felt just moments before had
now turned to anger, and she worked to control herself. The bright
side was that Michael wasn’t dating her anymore. He might be hurt,
but he would get over her, and now they could move on.

"I tried to call and text her all day
yesterday," he said, "but she won't answer. I just wish I could fix
this."

"Michael, maybe it's for the best. Melanie's
a nice enough girl, but you and she just don't fit. You have
nothing in common, she has no sense of responsibility, and she
can't even focus for five minutes. Do you really want to be with
someone like that?"

"Mom, Melanie is an amazing woman, and you're
wrong on all your points. You just don't know it."

"Michael, I'm not wrong. I have seen that
girl several times. Trust me, I can tell many things about other
women, including whether they would be good for you. You just
haven't seen her faults yet, Lord knows why."

Actually, Mrs. Angel did know why—sex.
However, she was not about to have that discussion with Michael. He
was a grown boy, but she knew when he was thinking with the wrong
head. The topic of conversation at her dinner table during Joshua's
birthday party told her that Melanie was a little too free with her
body and her thoughts.

"Mother," Michael said, as he used a more
formal address. "You just don't get it. But it doesn't matter
anyway," he sighed. "She was very angry. I don't think she'll ever
want to see me."

"Trust me, Michael, you're better off. You
deserve a woman like Jennifer." Susan thought about her comment and
had to chuckle lightly even while her son was in pain. "Well, maybe
not Jennifer, but someone like her," she said.

Michal chuckled lightly with an odd sort of
amusement. "Yeah, Melanie said the exact same…" he replied and
didn’t finish his sentence.

Mrs. Angel had been putting away the bread,
and she turned to her son as he trailed off with his sentence. He
was cold in his look, and as she watched him, his jaw set, his eyes
turned to slits and his fists clenched. He was no longer passive;
he was angry.

"What did you do?" he asked through clenched
teeth.

She thought about lying and even opened her
mouth to say something, but she paused, unsure what to offer as a
lie. That pause was all that Michael needed to know the truth. He
stood fully to attention and shook his head.

"What the hell did you do?" he yelled.

"Michael, I didn't do anything," she
protested meekly.

"Bullshit, Mother, now what the hell did you
do?"

Mrs. Angel wasn’t used to her sons talking to
her this way, and she was not about to have them start now. He had
cursed in her presence, and that was bad enough with Brian, she
would not have that from Michael as well.

"I took her to lunch and told her that she
wasn’t good enough for you. I told her to break up with you, and
she agreed, Michael."

Michael shook his head in anger, looked to
the ceiling, and then paced for a moment.

"Oh, God damn it, mom," he cried.

Susan suddenly angered beyond control. She
took two steps and swung her arm fully, slapping him hard across
the face. The noise was loud and her hand stung with the effort,
but she ignored it. She took that same hand, clenched it, and
pointed a finger at her eldest son.

"You will not blaspheme in this house, young
man," she cried out to him.

Michael turned to her and rapidly grabbed her
outstretched hand. Her finger was still pointing, and she could do
nothing as he squeezed it tightly; her finger bent backward in pain
as he crushed her hand.

"You have lost all right to discipline me,
mother," he said with clenched teeth as the woman that gave him
life began to buckle under his assault. She contorted to an odd
shape as he moved his grip; her elbow tried to bend in a way that
it was not designed to do, and she cried out.

"Michael, you're hurting me," she said
meekly. When he did not reply, she yelled his name.

"Michael!"

Her son suddenly let go of her hand, and he
pushed her back as he did. She stumbled but maintained her balance.
When she was able to, she stood fully and faced a man that was so
angry she actually feared that he might cause her physical harm.
This was not a side of her son that she had ever seen. It was
unfamiliar, and it scared her.

He took a step towards her, and she braced
herself. The familial roles were now reversed, and for the first
time in their lives, he chastised her.

"You had better hope this can be fixed," he
said as he pointed his finger at her. "You had no right to do what
you did."

"I'm your mother," she seethed.

"You're an embarrassment," he spat out in
words that cut her deeply.

"I have put up with your meddling in my life
long enough," he continued. "I have met the girls you chose, I have
come over here to help with your house when you asked in a
conniving manner, I have assisted you in many ways and cared for
you in others, but this is my life, not yours. I will choose who I
date, and you will stay out of it."

"You would choose that tramp over your own
mother?"

Michael's face contorted as he comprehended
the remark, and his arm swung back rapidly.

"Michael!" she cried as she put an arm up to
defend herself.

He recovered quickly and didn’t strike his
mother. His arm relaxed, and his finger pointed to her.

"At this moment in time, Melanie is a saint.
You’re the one in need of the confessional," he said, and then
flexed his hands in and out.

Never in her entire life seen had she seen
her son this angry—not with his brother, not with the bullies at
school, not with anyone. She had not imagined him capable of this
level of passion, and certainly didn't imagine that the anger could
be directed at her.

He moved away from her and paced rapidly.

"Why, mother?" he said quietly as he began to
gain composure.

"She's not right for you, Michael. You just
don't see it," she said.

"Maybe, but now we'll never know will we?" he
asked her. He thought more on the matter. "So what, I'm supposed to
take your word for it?"

"Oh, grow up, Michael. You’re an adult. Stop
thinking with your penis," she shot back.

"You want me to grow up? That's rich," he
said as he continued to pace. A thought seemed to come to him and
he stopped his pacing and turned to her.

"You're right, Susan, perhaps I need to grow
up."