I love you, but I hate what you do. As an angel, it’s my duty to place myself between you and as much filth as I can find in one place. So if any of you knew I was what I was would it be any surprise at all to find me in this gas station?
You walk in here beautiful even with the stench of nicotine sin steaming off of you in waves. I pray, truly, that you will just take the soda and leave. It’s as good a deal as you can get to leave and keep the killers on the shelf where they belong. You never do, though. You ask me how much money you can win. Pretend to consider against playing, but I know greed has you. You ask how much you can win, then you tell me how much you’re going to lose and I resign myself to accept it.
I find myself in the slow hours looking everywhere for some kind of redemption and find only failure. There was never any chance for me. I am alone and the sins come in three-for-two specials. I love you, and I am beginning to hate you. Beginning to enjoy selling your own death back in a tan package. The irony is not lost on me. This is the way it should be; the way I want it.