My colleague, the motherly old lady who brings homemade apple pie for the coffee breaks, looked through a supplier catalogue with me. We were discussing which angels to buy.
"The little chubby ones are a sure bet."
The chubby ones were more than just chubby, they were more or less completely round in shape, and weighed down with golden glitter. "They just walk off the shelves!" my colleague insisted and I nodded. Obviously, they couldn't possibly fly with all that extra weight. I hope they don't have to guard anyone.
"On the other hand, the weird modern ones are in fashion."
The weird modern ones are the ones with haloes askew, arms attached at odd angles and slightly crazed smiles, as if the twenty-first century is slowly driving them around some cosmic bend. They usually also have to carry around a giant heart or a string of stars made of barbed wire.
They all sit there on the shelf by the window among the scented candles, smiling crazily. Possibly the artificial cinnamon and lemon scents are going to their heads. Stoned angels. Sometimes I wish they would not all sit there looking at me.