Hers

The veins beneath her skin glowed blue beneath the MTA fluorescents, as if Time had frozen them in porcelain. He imagined pressing his lips to a Russian china doll or the Vatican floor. Peter grabbed her hand, wanting to tell her how he felt, that this trip to New York wasn’t just a platonic excursion, how he had never been so encapsulated by a woman. Delilah looked up and smiled like a child observing a strange painting. The subway doors opened, releasing the moment out into the March air.

His

Peter and Samson had kissed just once, drunk, on the shuttle back from the Quad one Saturday night freshman year. Both pulled away and laughed. But as the humor faded, the space between the two men fell away, replaced by a quiet heavy with meaning.

The Wrath of Angels

The ArchAngels had cast him out of Heaven, so Peter wandered in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Gabriel had cast the first stone. It hit the surface and rippled throughout the roommates. Peter returned from section and opened his door to a common room he barely recognized. The angels had stripped away every hint of habitation aside from his own. Their coats were gone from their hangers. They’d taken their mugs from the shelf. The calendar had been torn off the wall. Their bedroom doors were closed, locked. Peter had never known such a violent silence.

He could hear them on the other side of the wall. Delilah was crying. Samson kept saying, “Time.” Peter stopped listening when they started having sex.

First Night

Peter ran into Michael in the bathroom, running sink water over his righteous sword. Peter asked if they could talk. “I think that time’s passed,” Michael said, and nothing else. Peter watched his own blood stream off the blade and down the drain.

Noah: I can’t.

Peter: Please, just for tonight. We could cuddle?