The New Yorker is on fire…
…figuratively, of course. Their fiction selection this week is just as good as last week’s: A Better Angel, by CHRIS ADRIAN
I made a lot of trips back and forth to the pharmacy, and imagined the little man in the back filling the bottles from two big coolers of bright, pure drug, and dreamed of following him back there to put my mouth to the spigots, because I was sure that if I could just ingest enough then the angel would be permanently transformedâ€â€and if it happened also to be enough to kill me, so be it. I was sure that she would take me someplace bearable. How she hated those little bottles.
