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Outside the bookshop, again! He could not ‘not’ be there. He hated himself for it, but then again he hated himself for breathing. This was penance. This was salt rubbed in the wounds, a reminder of his stupidity for believing he could be accepted. Even the ‘all good, all loving’ God herself banished him from her side and now Azi…
A sharp rap on the window knocked him out of his melancholic, self-loathing tirade and back into his default state - confused rage.
The Bentley’s window rolled down and he said nothing just stared, piercing her with the daggers of anger he currently held towards all those of her ilk.
“Sorry.” Muriel smiled. “Would you have a moment to come in and help? I’m … I’m afraid I might have done some damage.”
Through clenched teeth, Crowley hissed, “What have you done!” The thought of the shop harmed in any way catapulted him out of the vehicle; a twisty frenzy of long legs and swinging arms swept past her and towards the shop doors.
Muriel, well-pleased with his reaction, followed at a slower pace. She’d watched him for days, sitting across the street, still as death. The vehicle would station itself mid-afternoons, and disappear before dawn. Several times she’d attempted to communicate, waiving, smiling, but was met with frost and silence. Her tender-heart hurt at the thought of the demon out there alone in despair. He seemed a decent enough chap for a demon.
At the store’s threshold, Crowley froze. Smells, images, sounds, memories, all overwhelmed him and he stood paralyzed, engulfed in emotions he had spent weeks trying to smother.
Muriel quietly came up beside him, and opened the door. “In the kitchen,” she walked in hoping he would follow.
Crowley was drawn in. The bookstore joyously welcomed him and then deeply chastised him. A deepened sense of sadness crept up as his feet crossed the wooden floor. He stopped. His Angel was still here in some form; Crowley felt wisps of him in the air.
“This way,” Muriel coaxed and once again his body moved.
He removed his dark glasses and surveyed the kitchen - spotless, not a dish or towel out of place. He squinted accusingly at her.
Both proud and penitent, Muriel confessed. “I, I lied. First time I’ve purposely done so. I know it was wrong but …” She went to the stove and poured hot chocolate into a winged mug. “Something told me it was the right thing to do.” Tilting her head, she smiled apologetically as she handed him the mug.
To both his and her surprise, he accepted the offering.
“Perhaps you’d like to sit by the shop window?” She moved into the shop and Crowley followed. Sitting himself in the overstuffed chair, he fell into a trance-like silence, content, or what passed for content at this moment since … since …
His fingers twitched and came to his lips, it almost felt like …
“Hold on my dear, hold on.” The whisper encircled him.
Muriel felt the waves of warmth and discreetly let them be.