He took a minute to cogitate on this, first letting the pads of his fingers dig into the hard edge of his glass, and then trail down over the smooth sides. He watched the overhead light reflect a thousand times in the golden brown liquid as he raised it up, as he let it pool first this way and then that, like he'd find answers in the thin rivulets that clung to the glass's insides. Boyd had had enough of faith; but something rankled about the mere idea of sitting next to an angel. Not the notion of it all, today he was too tired to feel skeptical, and, anyway, he found skepticism too mundane for his taste - no, it was not the idea that an angel could sit beside him, it was more that one would.
Truly, I say to you, no sign shall be given to this generation.
And why had God not given him a sign before, when his daddy had murdered every believer to the man that Boyd had brought to Jesus - when he'd felt the death of his very soul and his very heart? Why had God refused not to send down his angel then?
He swallowed the entirety of the glass at once and set it down again with a quiet thud, before pushing it on back to the other side and nodding for another.
"That's all right." And he felt strangely at peace saying it. "Though you will pardon me if I wonder aloud what holy purpose you've been sent here for. See, I don't recall much in the good book about angels sharin' a drink with sinners without a reckonin' afterwards."