Angel by Name

Not by nature.

The messages pinged and pinged and pinged. The new photo on my profile changed my status from the lowest count of clicks, to the most popular. And it was a picture of me … twenty years ago, and heavily reshaped using the new AI app. It still looked like me. I can see the shape of the face. That’s the same now as it was then.

But I wanted wings. And I got them. Wings. Oh, to fly above the crowd, to be seen, marveled at. Not like Super-Muscled-Man things, but as a beauteous creature, ethereal, heart-stopping.

Not like IRL. The mirror doesn’t lie. Until the makeup goes on. A little thicker these days, a little less definition. Softening, rounding out, shading the things that need to remain hidden.

The real me stares back.

Two more pings echo around the small bathroom. I pick up the phone, open the app, delete the image.

Anyone who’s only interested in a good-looker isn’t looking for me. I upload the previous photo and update my profile.

Ping-ping-ping. I don’t need to look at the screen to see all the messages deleted and the scrolling going up rather than down. It happened last time, and it’s happening again.

A soft lipstick, a subtle Autumn shade, goes on the lips. I smoosh the colour into an almost even shape of what was once called Cupid’s bow, and smile.

The phone is silent. I pick it up. There’s one message remaining. I click on his profile.

Hmmm. Pale hair, not blond, not quite grey. Dark eyes surrounded by laugh lines and wild brows. A simple comment. He’s always wanted to meet an Angel.

Well, that’s me, by name if not by nature.

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