Where Angels Fly Away
by Valery V. Petrovskiy
An angel was flying over a town with its wings snow-white and fluffy. It fluttered above red tiled roofs and variegated chimneys. It hovered over some young folks with their eyes lifted up to the sky, and it was just a girl’s drawing. With her aureate hair and timid smile from above, Gala appeared like an angel herself: she was very tall, quite young and extremely shy.
She studied art, and it was her degree work, a red-haired angel resembling her. Very likely, Gala could have been taller than me, or maybe I was taller. We never had a chance to measure with her, standing side by side, and in bed we had no chance. She was crazy in bed as well as on a sofa, and on the floor. Whenever tipsy, she called me to rescue her. In order not to have my angel fallen and smashed, I drove to her and took to my place. Gala was so malleable while dancing, and had a nice sense of rhythm.
That year Gala left the Art School, after finishing her degree work with the angel flying above the town. Since then, I haven’t seen her for long. It was because of her family life, husband and children. She had two daughters; everything was the way it’s supposed to be. Only she wasn’t an angel anymore, with two kids instead of wings. She was afraid that I would ask about her painting with the angel and didn’t show up.
She didn’t have to be afraid, I wouldn’t ask her about her wings, and mine had been put down in a garage long ago. Still I wonder where the picture is now, with the angel that flutters high in the sky, over the roofs, apartment blocks and young couples in the street with their eyes up.