My Chipotlé Angel

I had parked my car across the street from Chipotlé, feeling lucky to have even found a spot at 6pm on a Wednesday. An angry beast clawed at me from inside my stomach and told me that, if I took the time to walk down to the corner and cross at the light, it would burst out and murder me on the scene. The police would find my body, starved to death, lying in a crosswalk as angry commuters honked at my cooling corpse. So, distracted by daydreams of fresh guacamole and marinated meat, I darted between two parked cars. A voice above my head shouted, “Look out!”, and I jumped back. A bus winked by, nearly clipping my nose and flattening my toes. I’d nearly been killed — if it hadn’t been for the voice.

I spun around and looked up. There was a beautiful, young, female figure only feet above my head. A white mist enveloped her. She was leaning out a second floor apartment window and tendrils of smoke danced around her in the breeze. The unmistakable scent of marijuana reached my nose. Her golden hair glowed like a precious metal fresh from King Tut’s tomb. The breeze caught her twinkling mane, lifted it, and revealed dark roots underneath. Her skin was pure and smooth as marble, like a china doll delicately polished by the finest craftsman. She leaned out further and I caught a glimpse of the word “Hank” tattooed on her left breast. Who was Hank? I wondered, but it wasn’t the question I asked.

“Are you an angel?”, I shouted up to the window.

She answered my question with a question as I suppose all angels do, “Are you some kind of freak?” She didn’t give me time to answer before she gave her angelic advice. “You should watch where you’re going, dumb shit.” She ducked her head back inside and slammed the window.

As I ate my Chipotlé that day, it tasted better than it had on any other day. I reflected upon the advice I was given and had a fresh new perspective on life. From now on I would be different. I would be a new man for I had met my guardian angel, and her name was Hank.

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