He’s cold, but the coffee is warm. He’s a banker, and to him, the trade is an honest one. His life is a grind, but at least it’s better than the barista’s, better than the bum sleeping on the sidewalk’s, better than the rat’s. If, tomorrow, the world were to end, his plea would be that he has a wife and kids, even though his wife left him years ago and his children don’t call.

  He gets up, and someone comes to clean the table. The busboy weaves between customers, too efficient to be visible. On the days he’s not working, he likes to paint. His apartment room is a gallery of his previous works, and he’s not yet lost hope that he’ll sell one someday. Sometimes he wonders if angels like to wait near battlefields. Do they tune out the noise and just watch the souls drifting up, up, up, turning the sky a brilliant white?

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  On the ground, pigeons are wandering. People walk past them and they scatter, flying this way and that. One lands on a fourth floor window. Sleepily, the little girl inside opens her eyes. She blinks in the weak morning sunlight, which shines upon her room and handmade paper flowers. She thinks they might grow if she gives them enough water and love, just as she thinks that people should feed the pigeons and that poverty will end and that Ursula and Gaston could make a great couple if they just had a chance to meet. I can’t say I agree with her, but it might happen.