by Jake Christie

a story.

I open the door and for the third time this week it’s Saint Peter, wringing his halo with both hands and smiling that dopey nice-guy smile.

“Pete,” I say, keeping one hand on the door, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

He raises his eyes to look over my shoulder. I throw back my head and drink the rest of my beer and he’s saying, “Actually, I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

“Well, nuts,” I say. I crush the empty can and toss it over his shoulder, into a pile of clouds near the door. It begins to sink. “Want a beer?” I ask.

Saint Peter doesn’t even try to hide the look of disgust that ripples across his face. “We had another complaint about the noise,” he says, real quick, I guess so I won’t have time to get mad about it. I don’t, but only because there’s not a hell of a lot up here to get mad about.

“Are you going to kick me out?” I ask. I glance over at the beer can. Half of it has disappeared. In an hour it will be falling.

“Well, of course not,” says Peter. “You led a good life. You know we can’t do that. All I’m asking is that you be a little more consider– ”

I shut the door.

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