Post-Departure

The stern-faced saint stands before the gates; not pearly, but gilt.

He looks me up and down.

"I'm ready for your apology," he says gruffly.

"I haven't got one," I reply. It's been a rough morning.

"What?" he says, seemingly taken aback.

"I have no apology to offer," I say.

His eyes narrow.

"I didn't make me," I say, "and I only ever did as I was made to do."

There is a long pause as he tries to stare through me.

The gates open. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, muttering under his breath.