O hai. I read this like a million years ago (okay, so really just one year ago), and I was so stunned by it that I honestly didn't know what to say. I still don't, but here, let me try.
Every word of the story is so evocative, so vivid, that I almost expect to hear the whine of shells outside. It's beautiful in surreal ways, for all the horror of it--the barrage balloon, the darkened streets. And Aziraphale and Crowley...see, I'm losing words again. They're perfectly imperfect, Aziraphale's jealousy (forty-eight circles...I love that he counted) and Crowley's easy acceptance of the American's flirting. And the end--oh! It's such a wonderful spark of hope in the midst of all the disaster and destruction of the Blitz.
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Every word of the story is so evocative, so vivid, that I almost expect to hear the whine of shells outside. It's beautiful in surreal ways, for all the horror of it--the barrage balloon, the darkened streets. And Aziraphale and Crowley...see, I'm losing words again. They're perfectly imperfect, Aziraphale's jealousy (forty-eight circles...I love that he counted) and Crowley's easy acceptance of the American's flirting. And the end--oh! It's such a wonderful spark of hope in the midst of all the disaster and destruction of the Blitz.