Angels

He had always made good pasta.
His angel hair was beautiful, some said. A triumph of taste.
He went into the store room to get some one night.
"All out," He explained.
So he went.
And the door squealed, even though it was already shut.
When he came out there was blood on his hands and a white feather on his apron.
The angel hair tasted delicious that night.

Word Count: 69