Thousand: Seven Hundred Eighteen

at the leprechaun and she wonders if it’s smiling. She narrows her eyes. The hand is still stuck up in the air. She looks back at the rectangle of white. An angel again. But is it her angel? The angel picks at the air with long fingernails, seems to grasp something the girl can’t see, pulls at it, a look of concentration on its luminous face. Gradually, the angel peels away a membrane. Large pieces strip away, and the angel rolls them into balls in those long hands and drops these balls, which the girl doesn’t think she can see,