Elijah held in place and waited until finally Scott said, “What’s the right entry point?” He felt like not-Scott, which was all he had ever wanted.
“I think you know what the right entry point is,” Elijah murmured, and pushed the rest of the way in.
Things progressed quickly.
Elijah introduced him to the other angels; he called them that right in front of Scott and none of them laughed even though Scott gave them the space. They were so queer and strange and beautiful in different ways, each tall short hairy smooth light dark bear otter butch femme alien, everything Scott had ever fantasized his angel would ever be. And so brazen and blazing and so often in such small scraps of clothes that the angel joke—because it was obviously some incomprehensible joke far beyond Scott’s middle-aged
