The Sophomore

By Patric C. W. Verrone

The Butterfly Effect

The Drunkenness of Noah

Noah appeared in Peter’s doorway that Friday night. He stared at Peter through hazy, mystified sapphire eyes like a silty spring. His grin stretched all the way across his face. He swayed a little. Noah wrapped his arms around Peter and rested his forehead on Peter’s. He exhaled a faint mist of vodka soda. Peter tried to freeze the moment in his mind, but before he had the chance, Noah slipped down the stairs and through the bathroom door, telling Peter he’d be right back.

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The River

The Charles

He remembered how Virginia had done it. Rather, he remembered how Nicole Kidman had done it in that movie with her ridiculous prosthetic nose. He remembered how her shoes had sunk into the mud and how her eyes had remained straight ahead. He remembered her pale hands. He remembered how natural it all felt.

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Revelations

The Other Noah

Other Noah: Peter’s Adam, his first. That first night freshman year: all the quiet, electric anticipation from a summer’s worth of Facebook messaging, culminating in a collision like a cacophonous wave. Losing his virginity had felt to Peter like his ribs were being wrenched apart, like a bird being cracked open down the center to be feasted upon—meat. He was submerged in the serene broth and gravy of the night. Other Noah buoyed him so he wouldn’t sink deeper, or else held his body under the surface. All at once he was exposed. He was a sex person: a person who had sex now. His virginity was somewhere among the shards of shattered bone and bits of torn flesh and plucked feathers. He felt free, yet it seemed a gate had closed. Neurons within his head died and interwove; he had learned a thing.

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Master of None

The ArchAngels

Peter vaguely understood that his wings weren’t like the ArchAngels’, like Michael’s or Uriel’s. He had sometimes accidentally glimpsed their beautiful extremities in the joint bathroom. He’d watch Raquel fumble with her bra strap or Gabriel scratch a loose feather in the morning. Their light brilliance echoed unimaginable power. Then a flash of fabric, and a hoodie or leather moto jacket would securely obscure their appendages for the next seventeen hours. Peter hadn’t fully considered the impact of rooming with four ArchAngels. They had matriculated already oriented towards some set angelic métier. The House didn’t provide specialty tutors for the good entrusted in Peter.

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