Two Angels

"'We’re angels. You know that, right?' she spoke seriously.

'Well, I have some serious shortcomings,' he confessed quietly.
She leaned in slightly, a gentle streak of concern on her spotless face. He shifted slightly, sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, and forced a smile down his throat. The house was ready for something.
Her voice was aloe. 'Everyone does.'"

I have a hard time reading these fairy tales.
My foot starts tapping a rapid rhythm in tune to my heart.
I wish they would just kiss already!
I feel tempted to shout at the page at 9:45 on a Monday morn:
This is why I should give up reading; I want to be every character; I want everyone to be perfect for each other and for eyes to illuminate the velvet night and for people to snuggle sweetly in a dog-like manner

and life would be so kind.
The fable can read me, I’m sure;
maybe if I pretend everything is okay, it won’t catch on to my beating heart
or suspect anything of me.

"They spoke like this, grid-locked all through the magnetizing night. They swapped smiles and shared stories of sacrifice; disclosing in each other the tingling sadness of lying in bed alone; meanwhile the steadily rising loneliness inevitably leads to choices; choices that are too fragile to make even for the choice-makers, which soon one of them would be. Neither of them wanted to leave; they were wild horses, their reins flapping high and free in the wind; done being someone else's; done being drawbridges that led old lovers to who they are today; just two angels, fluttering in the electric spring, restless..."

“Does it matter?” my teacher asks of me.
And thus I am forced to answer:
“Why yes, I think it might.”