Of Coffee and Angels



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          Sometimes, Mehiel forgot to breathe.

     It wasn’t always a problem. Strictly speaking, it was not necessary— it was a considerate afterthought at best, a friendly reminder to the humans around him, when they were around him, that he was, in point of fact, not dead. (Technically he was not alive, either, but that was beyond the point.)

     One would think that thousands of years of hanging around on Earth would have drummed the more banal routines particular to human beings (and their biology) into his blessed skull, but, as it turned out, it was the very fact that they were banal that they didn’t stick. Mehiel had his head in other, ostensibly more lofty places, and things like breathing, blinking, and sneezing simply did not occur to him.

     He was interested in far more important matters. Such as prayer. The written word. Those who studied and spread the written word. And coffee. Oh, yes, coffee.

     Every morning, without fail, one could find him in the local Starbucks cafe (it was a cozy enough town that there was only one local Starbucks cafe, as opposed to many), any one of several of his favorite, impossibly complicated concoctions of the caffeinated variety close at hand, poring over a stack of every available newspaper he’d managed to get his hands on. The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, the Washington Post, the Indigenous Rag— these were the usual candidates, and they never failed to provide him with endless entertainment.

     Mehiel, tucked away in a corner with his sweet, calorific beverage-of-choice, bent over a pile of newspapers and chuckling to himself, was a sight the locals were accustomed to, but occasionally a tourist would blow through their town with a more prestigious destination in mind, grudgingly stay the night and require coffee-flavored fuel the next morning, and wonder at the strange, pale man occupying the distant corner of the store. He did seem out of place anywhere that could be defined as a place by humans. He was also rather out-of-date, for that matter, judging by his hairstyle, which looked like it had been lifted from an 18th-century fashion plate (his clothing, thankfully, did not...although “thankfully” might not have been the proper term, considering what his clothing did look like).

     One thing that nobody —not the tourists, not the regulars— ever seemed to notice was that Mehiel, laughing behind his napkin at the newspapers spread before him, did not necessarily need to be reading the funnies in order to induce these bouts of hilarity. He rarely read the funnies. He laughed at everything else: from the hopeful appraisal of the president-elect on the front page to the lamenting of the local sports team’s loss the previous night to the Dear Abby column to the hurricane that devastated the Carolinas to the tension between one generic country and another even more generic country. No one realized he was reading the entire newspaper, and not just a single page (presumably the comics), because he didn’t feel it was worth his time to open and turn every page in order to read the wonderfully diverting contents, not when he needed one hand to hold his coffee and the other to stifle his giggles.

     Had anyone discovered, or thought they’d discovered, that he was laughing at current events, at sports, at politics, at editorials, at war and natural disasters, at these very serious matters, they probably would have thought he was a deranged sociopath, or at least extremely morbid. They would shake their heads and wonder what the world was coming to. They would disapprove, cluck their tongues, and stay far away.

     They would likely not even pause to consider the possibility that Mehiel was tickled to death by the indescribably HORRIBLE prose that these fine newspapers had to offer the literate world (although ‘literate’ in and of itself was a stretch).

     It’s only getting worse, he thought to himself one morning as he finished his pile, not certain whether to bemoan this state of affairs or to celebrate the prospect of further entertainment. He glanced around at the rest of the shop, curling one hand around his mocha and bringing it close for a sniff (the smell of coffee, he passionately felt, was superior to the taste, even when the taste was, dare he say?, heavenly). One of the blow-through tourists was staring at him, almost expectantly, but Mehiel’s gaze drifted to the doorway, abstracted.

     And then his pale eyes lit up, and he was rising from his chair and waving one hand happily and enthusiastically. The tall man who had just entered the shop looked displeased by this exhibition, judging from his tight lips and slightly narrowed eyes, but he wordlessly threaded his way through the tables and chairs before assuming the seat across from Mehiel, who, beaming, sought out the other man’s hand and pumped it energetically. “Long time no see, my dear friend! Well, I suppose not long for us...”

     Vasariah, the tall man, attempted to extricate his hand from Mehiel’s grip as politely as possible. “Indeed,” he returned a bit curtly, “but I would advise you to either keep your voice down or relocate this conference immediately.” He himself was a picture of serenity next to Mehiel’s exuberance, and spoke in a mild whisper. Perhaps he thought that setting a good example would guide his palaverous companion to follow suit; it might have worked, had it not been a matter of a caffeine high.

     The nearby tourist continued to watch these two strangers, taking wary sips of his chai latte. He could not deny that there was something terribly curious about the both of them, but the more he remained and tried to study them and hear just what it was they were talking about, the more guilty he felt about eavesdropping. In fact...

     Mehiel was speaking urgently. “But they have the best coffee here! And just look at this comfy atmosphere, or feel it, rather— why, if they had chairs like these at the Library—”

     “I don’t care for coffee,” Vasariah said calmly, and then turned in his seat and glanced up. “May we help you?”

     The tourist was standing beside their table, wringing his cup between his hands, looking chagrined and forehead glistening with sweat. “I-I,” he stammered. “Uh. W-well. I’m so sorry. I was trying to listen to you two.” He felt strangely lightheaded. “And I know I shouldn’t. I don’t know why I...”

     Mehiel lifted his eyebrows at Vasariah, who slowly released a soft sigh and locked eyes with the human. “What did you intend to find out?” he asked unnecessarily. He already knew. He preferred it when humans said it outloud. Otherwise they never learned anything.

     The guilt was overwhelming, now, suffocating. “I thought maybe you guys were gay,” the tourist blurted miserably. “I was going to go up to the barista and ask if she knew who you two were, and if you were...you know... And then...talk about you...behind your backs...” At the same time, he wondered why he was telling them all of this. It seemed like a foolish thing to do, all things considered, particularly when he thought about just how much he was saying— but somehow it was making him feel better.

     The thin, dark man smiled slightly. It was a stern smile that did not at all reach his eyes, but it was infinitely comforting. “‘Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers’,” he rebuked him gently, pardoning the man.

     The tourist almost collapsed in his relief. “Yes,” he said, “yes, of course, yes. Thank you.” And, still dazed but much happier now that that was off his chest, he turned and left the Starbucks without a backward glance.

     There was a pause.

     “Ephesians?” Mehiel mused, and took a sip of his mocha (the name of the drink was actually far more complicated than that, but at its core it was but a humble mocha). “Hm. Does that happen often, Vasariah?”

     “Certainly.” The tall man adjusted his tie and resettled himself in his chair. “In this case I found it easy to forgive the poor man. You know you look very odd, Mehiel.” There was the slightest lilt of a question to that last statement, as though he wondered if perhaps the other man didn’t notice how peculiar he looked.

     Sure enough, Mehiel frowned. “Odd?”

     Vasariah drummed his manicured fingers on the table. “You’re wearing a pink cardigan. Did you mean to wear a pink cardigan today?”

     “Oh, well!” was the cheerful reply as he picked at the front of the offending sweater almost lovingly. “I think it’s charming. And the connotations the color carries are strictly social constructions, most of which are quite inane.”

     The other man wilted a little, trying to think of a polite and moderately clever retort, and, failing, straightened back up. “I,” he informed Mehiel a tad loftily, “don’t care for pink.”

     “You don’t care for anything interesting!” Mehiel rejoined with a grin. “It’s not a sin, is it? Now, stop thinking about work for one morning and have some coffee! The others should be here presently.”

     “I don’t drink coffee,” Vasariah reminded him tolerantly, glancing around at the door, hoping one of the others would show up soon. It wasn’t that he disliked Mehiel. He simply didn’t care for him.

     “Tea, then.”

     “I don’t drink,” he clarified, now a bit impatient. They’d been over this centuries ago, and the other never seemed to want to let it go.

     “You old bore,” Mehiel said affably. “I don’t doubt you’d find that humans have come up with things that taste much better nowadays. If you’re going to eat or drink something, now is definitely the time to try it. At least have...here, I can fetch another straw, you need only dab it in and take a drop, for goodness sake...”

     At that moment, another stranger entered the Starbucks, and Vasariah gratefully stood and nodded in the young man’s direction, aware of Mehiel doing roughly the same beside him, only with more effusive gesticulations.

     The new man was slim and, in a word, beautiful. The suspicious, repentant tourist who had just ducked out would have had a field day if this man, rather than Vasariah, had entered and joined Mehiel at the corner table first. He smiled pleasantly at the others and spread his hand in a very loose interpretation of a wave, and stopped at the counter to order a drink for himself.

     “See?” Mehiel prompted, sitting back down and smiling mischievously at Vasariah’s stoic expression. “Lelahel’s going to have something. You know you aren’t forbidden to eat and drink as humans do, my dear.”

     Vasariah sighed again. He sighed a lot; it kept him from scowling. “I am perfectly aware of this. I still choose not to.”

     Mehiel shook his head and thumbed back through his newspapers, falling silent. They had all, it seemed, been spending too much time on Earth among humankind— it was rubbing off on each of them in different ways, not all bad, but it was often confusing when you were a divine being in mortal’s clothing. Some qualities, usually the good, were innate, and innately good. They were angels, after all. But years, decades, centuries, millennia passed, and things changed, innate or not. The Shemhamphorasch were not immune.

     Lelahel wandered over to the two men in the corner, and the few customers who were still in the store (most had already been surprised to realize that they had previous engagements that they were late for, and had hurried out into the world before the third stranger even arrived) may or may not have noticed that one of the waiting, empty chairs scooted out a few inches to allow him room to sit. Surely one of the other men had pushed it out with their feet. Of course.

     He settled himself gracefully in the seat and folded his legs, cupping an exquisitely crafted Caramel Macchiato in his hands, the golden syrup crosshatching forming wonderfully imperfect 90 degree angles over the whipped cream, not a dribble to be seen on the mug. “I don’t know that I can bring myself to drink it,” he remarked wistfully. “It’s so pretty.”

     Mehiel set aside his papers and winked at the young man. “I assure you, it shall be worth it.”

     Vasariah felt himself warm to Lelahel inevitably, as always. He smiled his toneless smile. “How are you, then, Lelahel?”

     The slender boy blew on his coffee to cool it, and, miraculously, the caramel pattern was not disrupted in the least. “Oh, very well,” he answered, also smiling. His smile could be likened to a patch of sunlight emerging on a cloudy day. His very being was analogous to such a phenomenon. “You both look well. Keeping busy, I trust?”

     “Day in, day out,” Mehiel affirmed, taking a sip of his own brew.

     Vasariah nodded, trying not to press his lips together in a grimace, and swallowing his sigh. The question had been couched innocently enough, but the fact remained that Lelahel was quite high in the hierarchy. If he felt like assuming a role of authority during this reunion, he was entitled to it.

     Lelahel had no such aspirations. The question had been innocent. “Who else are we expecting?” he wondered.

     “Nelkhael said he might drop in,” Mehiel shrugged, prying off the lid of his coffee and peering almost thoughtfully at the sandy, dark mass that had accumulated at the bottom of his cup. “By the by,” he added, glancing up, “I like your hair this time. Very posh.”

     “Thank you,” was the pleased response. “And I like your sweater. Pink is a very popular color these days. Not that hue, in particular, but I enjoy it.”

     “I like pastels,” Mehiel uttered avidly, grinning and glancing at Vasariah (who was no longer smiling and was watching the door). “I have another shirt very much like your hair. I may wear it tomorrow.”

     “Very youthful, very fresh,” Lelahel said dreamily, running one hand through his pale blue mane. “Last week I was all oranges and yellows and reds, so I thought this week I’d tone it down. Relax. I’m enjoying myself very much.”

     “You seem very relaxed.”

     “Vasariah,” Lelahel spoke up gently, and the tall, dark man jerked in his chair and blinked in surprise. Vasariah had eyes of that bland hue particular to backgrounds in school photographs when the children’s parents don’t bother to invest in a colorful filter. It was a very generic color. Lelahel silently disapproved, but continued to smile outwardly. “What have you been up to?”

     Leave it to Lelahel to include everyone in the conversation...or to start a new one, as the case may be. “The usual,” Vasariah replied, sparing Mehiel a withering look as the shorter man made to stand up. “Mehiel, where are you going?” He could already detect a smidgen of guilt.

     Mehiel indicated his cup. “I’ve finished. I’m disposing of this, and then I shall acquire another.”

     Dark eyebrows arched and a trim moustache twitched. “Do you need another?”

     “Now, now,” Lelahel said as he finally took a sip of his macchiato (still the lovely pattern remained undisturbed, impossibly so). “We are all friends, here. You sound critical, Vasariah. What is a cup of coffee?”

     “Or two,” Mehiel mumbled, fiddling with his spectacles.

     “It is indulgence,” Vasariah returned, phlegmatic, but not entirely detached. His tone was eloquent in expressing his need to chasten his companion. “Unnecessary. Superfluous. ‘And put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite’.”

     The shorter man’s pallid face matched and then surpassed the hue of his sweater, shame suffusing his cheeks. “Don’t you quote at me!” he puled, more hurt than upset by the implication of Vasariah’s words, as sensitive as ever, perhaps even more so, thanks to the excitement the sugar had induced. “Don’t you treat me like one of them!”

     “Oh dear,” Lelahel remarked, holding up his palms in a supplication of peace. “Don’t let’s fight. The other patrons...”

     “I apologize,” said Vasariah smoothly, not sounding entirely sincere. “It must be force of habit, in my case and yours, perhaps. Don’t mind me. Enjoy your coffee.”

     Mehiel calmed down, but his cheeks were still flushed, and he plumped down in his chair, staring sullenly at his stack of newspapers, squeezing his fingers around his rumpled, empty cup.

     “Vasariah,” Lelahel chided, lowering his hands and rolling his iridescent eyes to Heaven.

     “I’m not stopping him. Am I? But Mehiel, I wonder,” the tall, sententious man went on mildly, and the Shemhamphorasch would have to chalk up his smugly perverse pleasure in needling Mehiel to those years, decades, centuries, and millennia of inevitable changes, “what would you do if God spoke to you, and He forbade you coffee?”

     Mehiel’s human guise was middle-aged, but he looked for all the world like a sulky, petulant child at that moment, lifting only his somewhat glistening eyes to glower at Vasariah, by all rights his superior, soft jaw jutting out with very deliberate emotion. “I would heed and obey,” he said as evenly as possible, “assuming He would even address such an infinitesimal detail.”

     Vasariah didn’t quite look mollified. “You could get a head start,” he suggested, almost breezily, “by discarding the belief of God’s commandments as hypothetical and treating them as Law...”

     “Both of you,” Lelahel cut in sharply, and the pair of them straightened and blinked themselves to uneasy attention, because Lelahel rarely spoke harshly, and when he did it was wise to listen. “Enough games. Greet our superior.” And they realized at once that Nelkhael was hovering by the table, and had been for some time, one eyebrow quirked, mouth curved in a bemused, complaisant smile.

     In terms of the cosmic order to which the denizens of Heaven adhere rather strictly, as do the beings who dwell in Hell, Lelahel outranked Nelkhael. The intrinsic power of the latter angel, however, was not to be ignored, and was in fact universally acknowledged and highly respected among the Shemhamphorasch. Everyone came together to support Nelkhael, to bear him up and bolster, with great reverence and delicacy, his sanity.

     It was difficult to fathom how it must be to possess infinite knowledge, an omniscience second only to God himself, or so it was said.

     And so Mehiel and Vasariah temporarily shuffled aside their differences and stood to welcome Nelkhael, practically stepping on each other’s heels in their haste to present him with a chair.

     “Don’t let me interrupt your debate,” he said as he leaned forward to neatly pluck up a napkin from the pile Mehiel had deposited on the table earlier. “It sounded interesting.”

     “I wouldn’t call it a debate,” Mehiel retorted, reclaiming his seat, far more relaxed around Nelkhael than the hyperconscious and fastidious Vasariah, “as much as an assault.”

     The Angel of Knowledge smiled his hallmark smile, thin-lipped, crooked, and evocative of memories past that his companions would prefer to put out of mind. “Tattletale,” he uttered out of the side of his mouth, breath laced with the suggestion of scornful laughter, and handed the napkin to a quietly perplexed Lelahel before picking up another. His eyes, more affected by the changes than most from the years, decades, centuries, and millennia that had passed, drifted over to Vasariah, who first preened under the gaze, and then drooped. “Do you really care, Vasariah?” he queried in a sardonic voice that most angels were not even capable of producing. “Or do you relish your capacity to make Mehiel feel worthless?”

     Vasariah’s face, ironically enough the color of creamed coffee, blanched. “Sir...!” He was at a loss for words, a rare and mortifying experience.

     Mehiel, whose business was words, appreciated the collection just spouted by Nelkhael. “Thank you,” he said with a pointed and arch wiggle of his eyebrows in Vasariah’s direction. “I think my appetite has returned.”

     Nelkhael handed a second napkin to Lelahel, who accepted it without question and put it in his lap, and turned his unsettling eyes and smile to Mehiel, now. “Help yourself to another cup, by all means. If God had a problem with your addiction, or with your pampered figure, I’m sure He would have mentioned it by now.”

     It was more an accident than from temper when Mehiel struck the table as he stood too quickly, jolting Lelahel’s propped elbows and, by extension, sending the rest of his macchiato cascading over the rim of the mug and onto his thighs.

     Nelkhael calmly dropped a third napkin in Lelahel’s lap, watching Mehiel babble out an apology and grab up the whole stack to press them on Lelahel, all the while avoiding the tinted lenses and grimly smirking lips of the drab-haired angel in black. Mehiel then turned and stiffly made his way back to the waiting barista, hands trembling perceptibly.

     Vasariah, normally composed, looked astounded. Even Lelahel, wincing as the dregs of his drink sank through his jeans and scalded his skin, mopping away with ineffectual, limp napkins, appeared distressed, and not just about the spill.

     Nelkhael glanced between them, apparently unconcerned, as he was still smiling faintly. “In my eyes,” he said, by way of explanation, “nothing is sacred.” Under their stares, as they desperately tried to comprehend and support him, he slowly, finally shrank. The last traces of his dark humor drained away, and he lowered the eyes in question to look bitterly down at his slender fingers, laced in a tangle on his lap. “Not even that which is meant to be.”

     Lelahel bit his lip. Mehiel ordered another mocha. Vasariah said nothing.

     That one of the Shemhamphorasch —perhaps the most beloved, the most consequential, the most detrimental— was Falling, was what brought the question to mind:

     Was nothing sacred?



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