Angel Fallen

I hustled her with a game of nine-ball.

It was easy. She’d been drinking when I proposed making the game “more interesting” with small wagers. So we played for several hours, and I let her win more than a few of the games to build her confidence up. When she felt certain that she could beat me, she offered a wager that was—indiscreet.

In my motel room that evening, we thoroughly enjoyed collection of payment as she worked off the debt.

I guess that might seem pretty despicable, right? But I’m fairly certain that she really didn’t mind, as she smiled cheerfully enough in the morning.

She gathered her clothing and said, “Sorry, I’ve really got to run to make it to work on time.”

“Really?” I asked, a little sleepily, “Where do you work?”

“Ponte Sant Angelo.”

That jolted me upright in the bed. I knew I’d seen her somewhere before.

“Not on the bridge?”

But she was already out the door and gone.

Later that afternoon, I stopped on the Bridge of Hadrian and admired Ferrata’s Angel with a Cross. She didn’t look like a gambler with a drinking problem.

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Couple of inspirations for this one. Sunday Photo Fiction

and Ferrata’s sculpture:


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