The Anything Room I

Rolf Auer, 15 April 2015 A.D.

I like making The Angel of Death laugh. You could say thats why she married me.
Her name is Azazeel. Only I can say it correctly. She told me exactly how to pronounce it. Guess
what happens to anyone who says it wrong
We met, of course, when she came to do me. She said, How do you want it? I said, How do I
want what? Inwardly irritated, she groused, Dont you know who I am?
She said, he said. Isnt this just always the way of it? Just how you make this work is the spice
of life.
No? I tried. She replied, I am Azazeel, The Angel of Death, and this is your death. Now do
you know me?
Ohhh, I go, my deeeaaaatthhh I was wondering when this would happen! I was hit by a
sudden urge to start thinking fast, real fast.
Been doing this long? I asked ingenuous-likemy version of you come here often?I
mean, you must find this all so boring
She gave me a funny look. You all try to play for time, she goes, but you usually talk about
yourselves. Why do you want to know about me? Why dont you, say, beg for more time, for
example, like everyone else?
I dont know, I tried, professional curiosity? Im a poet, and um theres very few things
that really interest us. Death, love all thatoh, you know I smiled, blushed a little and
looked away. What the hell, I was desperate.
She took a step closer to me forcing me to look back at her again.

Azazeel was a real knockout. An unforgettable beauty, a kind that youd remember yet would be
hard-pressed to describe. Lethal figured into it.
My fingers twitched to reach for my ever-present handy little lock-knife, my weapon of choice
for unpredictable situations. She smiled a little. For the first time, she said something to me
without being prompted. You really think you stand a chance against me? Especially with that
dinky little thing? She glanced at where my knife was hidden in my shirt pocket, indicating with
that she knew all about my secret weapon.
Hey, Ive never had any complaints, I replied, smiling back. Thats how we met. Its what
happens after, I suppose, that is what is interesting.
She undid a bola that was tied around her waist. And it didnt look as though I could cut through
the bola easily, either. It was a perdida. Thats Spanish for lost. Its weight was in the shape of a
smallish-looking gold human skull, and had the apparent heft of about a kilo, enough to dash
ones brains out with enough force behind it. (Bolas are also great for strangling.) Go ahead,
she said, get out your dinky little knife, all the while steadily wrapping the non-weight
business end of it around one hand and looking at me levelly.
My rather large walking stickread cudgelwas leaning against a tree beside me, out of her
sight. I reached for it now, and slowly brought it out where she could see it. In length, it came up
to my chin. Fuck off, bitch, I said casually, leaning on my stick. She coldly eyed it, then me. If
looks could kill. We spent a heartwrought couple of seconds staring at each other, appraisingly.
The Angel of Death, hmm, I was thinking. Geez, too bad, Id really like to have a coffee with
her. She curled her lips a little and said, Coffee, hmm? You know a place?
You read minds! I started.
Why, does that surprise you? Her voice had a sort of Irish-Scottish lilt.

No, I guess not. Must be one hell of an advantage in a fight, I thought. Theres a coffee
shop this way, not too far.
Youre buying, she retorted grimly, coming into step with me on my left side. We walked.
It was gorgeous out, the kind of day that makes you happy to be alive, makes you want to praise
The Lord God for yet again confirming that, yes, He is indeed unquestionably The Master Of All
Creation. The Sun appeared bright in the cloudless, afternoon pale azure sky, hinting at what it
might be like to enter at that time through the west gate of Heaven, all illumed with the ethereal,
heavenly clarity of the Sun, that brightest of holy tapers, another sweet reward for the just.
Just wondering something, she said.
Yes?
Why do you masturbate?
Say what? I stopped walking and turned sharply to look at her fully. Here in Canada, thats
like asking why you beat your mother. She smiled grimly and repeated her question. I dont, I
replied, tightening my grip on my walking stick, there in my left hand, between us. But you
used to, she continued, didnt you? I laughed while replying, Does Romeo kiss and tell?
The image of Romeo masturbating somewhere while Juliet impatiently drummed her fingers in
the next room seemed incongruous, to say the least. If Shakespeare was in any way hinting at
this when he wrote this playone of his greatest masterpiecesit somehow got lost in his
recounting of the all-encompassing gloriousness, beauty and pageantry of their love.
So, Death has no guile, I wondered, turning her words over in my mind. How reassuring.
Probably she fought that way, too. I made a mental note to try some dekes of varying subtlety
instead of the purely direct approach when it came down to us mixing it up. I mean, whatre you

supposed to do when youre up against someone whose whole existence revolves around dealing
death? Lie back and enjoy it?
That was then.
This is now, and now is us at that same coffee shop again, our nod to how we met (or almost
didnt meet, as it were).
The coffee shop was one of a franchise of a chain that boasted decent fresh roasted coffee, a
must for success in a city where coffee shops endlessly abound.
The usual? I asked her. She nodded and got us a table. I went for the coffees, two small dark
roasts, black with organic honey. I was bringing these back to our table and thinking ahout a joke
Id pondered this morning:
The wife and I woke up doing Sixty-nine. (Dont ask me how that happened.) So I says to her,
I says, Dear, Im sure it must be misnamed! There cant be only 68 of these left! After all, we
live for ever!
Azazeel must have overheard me thinking this, because she favoured me with one of those looks
as I approached our table. Youd think so, wouldnt you? she softly ears-only hissed as I set
the coffees down. Its a little early yet for cold sweats, dear, I retorted, sitting down and
toasting her before taking a small, comforting sip of my coffee.
The Sun streamed through the big picture window, playing slow golden sweet liquid fire all over
us, a warm reminder of why God made us: love.
The Anything Room is broken again, said Azazeel by unintentional non-sequitur way of
conversation.

I groaned inwardly. Which residence? I dreaded yet another lost afternoon breaking my mind
trying to make the thing work.
Saskatchewan.
Shit! And just when Spring arrived! There were other things Id rather be doing, I thought, while
staring at my sweeties luscious cherry-red-lipsticked lips. I nervously wet my lips, anticipating,
I suppose.
The Anything Room. All of us angels had one. God gave that to each of us as part of all of our
homes, one of His rewards for our being faithful. It was called The Anything Room because
when you entered it, you could do anything.
Go somewhere else in time? No problem. Meet Caligula in person so you could have a coffee
with him? No problem. Go to a reality that never existed? No problem. In The Anything Room,
anything goes. So long as it conformed to The Will of The Lord God.
Whats wrong with it? I asked Azazeel.
Error 404.
Ohhh, youre joking! Thank God! I wasnt looking forward to putting it through testbed.
You always say that, said Azazeel, smiling with her eyes, only for me.
Hey, Ive never had any complaints, I replied, reprising my favourite comeback, smiling in
return. I propped my head on the heel of my right hand, and stared out the window.
A looney for your thoughts. she whispered, following my eyes with hers.
I was thinking, Umm, your place or mine?

My place.
Sometime later. Were both standing in front of Azazeels Saskatchewan residence Anything
Room, its wall of formless, depthless, dense black primordiality slowly swirling before us. We
kiss, long and lingering, and holding hands we step into it and are enveloped, away.
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