Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

"That color looks better on my peonies," she observed, to George's amusement. "I'll let you two go back to your conversation . If I look at you side-by-side much longer, I might start making estrogen again. It does seem like old times, to see you two fooling around in the library." George felt about nineteen again as she winked at them. "Do grown women cry when they figure out that you two are together?"
    "Do not encourage him," George pleaded. "Oliver feeds off breaking fragile female egos that way. It's replaced baseball as his favorite sport."
    "I should repent." Oliver nodded. "It's more honest to let them delude themselves into believing that George is the sensitive type because he looks them in the eyes."
    Oliver drilled him in the ribs with a rigid finger when she'd gone. "She has it bad for you." He smirked. "It must be contagious because I do too."
    "I'm telling you, it's the shoes." George pointed to his grubby Nikes. Impulsively, he kissed Oliver again.
    "Stop," Oliver groaned, pushing him away. "I have a meeting with the President in fifteen minutes, and I can't go with a hard-on."
    George grinned. "Now the shoes make sense. You want the Secret Service agents to frisk you harder, don't you?"
    "Don't say harder," Oliver ordered. "The college president, dipshit. Now, what brings you here?"
    "Needed to check out a book. Hey, have you ever heard of an angel named Sephrim?"
    Oliver's handsome face clouded, and he made an exaggerated shiver. "Damn, George, the last person to ask me that question was Lucien LeTour." He shook his head slowly. "I felt bad for him the last time we ran into each other. I think he was suffering from schizophrenia, to be honest. He wasn't making sense. He wanted me to go urban exploring with him at the old Glendale Mill ruin. Gotta run. See you at four-thirty."
    George had nearly forgotten they had a date. "See you then."
    Something weird was happening, but schizophrenia wouldn't explain why he and Lucien were seeing the same angel. George put thoughts of Lucien on hold while he wandered the stacks, finding a couple of books on photo restoration. It was shocking how few there were. Most of the ones he found were how-to's on digital photo restoration. Approaching the desk, he smiled at Rose. "I'm having trouble finding books about restoring photographs. I need to fix the original. A copy won't do." He shoved the two tomes he'd found across the desk.
    She cocked her head, patting her silver waves coquettishly. "Let me see what I can find for you, dear." Slowly, she shook her head after typing in a search. "That's everything we have. One of the other college libraries might have something. Did you try the main branch of the public library?"
    George shook his head. "Thanks. I'll take these, but I need to get a new card." Pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his faded Levi's, he laid his driver's license on the counter. She used rose-lacquered nails to pick it up.
    "I'll be right back with your card."
    She marched into the glassed-in office behind the check-out desk and slowly typed in his information. Flipping idly through one of the books while he waited, he noted one simple thing he could try on the photo.
    "Here you go, Mr. Lloyd," she announced, louder than he thought was necessary. In a minute, however, George had his new college library card and license tucked back into his wallet and his books tucked under his arm.
    "Didn't that used to be George Lloyd? The reporter on that morning television show?"
    George kept walking, but heard the librarian's reply. "He'll always be George Lloyd, dear."
    That was the problem.
    Just inside the door to his apartment, the pain reappeared. Sharp and cutting, it pierced his back, driving him to his knees. He tried to breathe through it as another scene materialized inside his skull.
    The light-haired angel hovered above gray-streaked boulders. The grass beneath them reminded George of a baseball field; the boulders looked like baseballs of the gods. "Sephrim, the price must be paid." The angel pointed to a figure George hadn't noticed. The man wore a torn uniform. Blood stained the front of his homespun vest and breeches. His tricorn hat shaded his face, and he leaned on a musket.
    Sephrim raised his head to look up at the other angel before locking his gaze on the soldier. George felt his pain spiral as the Sephrim's wings beat the air before going still. The other angel stood over Sephrim and bent to gather the tips into one fist, pulling