The best part of a Mr. Goodbar is not the wrapper, is it? No, and the best part of a Coke is not the can. On those nights when you lie awake, either man or boy, wondering about yourself, peeling away one layer of oddness after another, you should remember and always be grateful that the woefully imperfect person that you are, with all your contradictions and unworthy desires, is not the best of you, any more than the wrapper is the best part of a Mr. Goodbar.

But the thing that really convinces me that the apocalypse is here is the crunching of smartphones under my feet.

Only in the darkest of pits do lights shine their very brightest.

I hand the package to the angel. He opens one up and stares at it like he's never seen one before.
He first looks at the skin colored side, which is a shade too light for him, then at the padded side, then back at the skin colored side again. He puts it up to his eye like a pirate's eye patch and makes a grimace.
My lips crack into a quarter smile even though it's hard for me to believe I can still smile. I grab it out of his hand. "Here, I'll show you how to use it. Let me see your foot."
"That's a pretty intimate demand in the angel world. It usually takes dinner, some wine, and sparkling conversation for me to give up my feet."
That calls for a witty comeback.
"Whatever."