"I don't know," she said, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knees and her chin in her hand. "He already had angels. Maybe he thought it would be more fun if we weren't all the same--just like he make birds with wings, and fish with fins, and giraffes with long necks, and turtles with almost no necks at all."
Part of her wanted to break her sandwich in half and share it with him, but some other part of her didn't want to be the one responsible for his vague downward saunter. If this was indeed the angel she guessed that he was. Then again, she supposed there was no effing with ineffability. "My name is Anathema," she said, "What's yours?"