Uriel was a more upmarket world. Millenia of years old, Uriel could have been mistaken for a woman in her late forties, fashionably allowing flecks of grey show in her chestnut hair. She didn’t wear make-up; she didn’t have time to apply it given her all-consuming job. Uriel wasn’t the tallest Archangel, but her authority made her seem the tallest Angel in the room. Her platinum-toned sleek suit, tailor-made, weaved by Heaven’s best, could never crease. Uriel proudly wore trousers; she was the trouser Archangel.
©OliverKerrigan 2018
Oliver Kerrigan 