1. The Day

The gods never laugh with you. I had to learn this the hard way.

Sure, they may laugh around you. If you're foolish enough, you can believe you're a part of their game. Don't be mistaken—you are not. You are not part of their joke insomuch as you are the joke. You're a fragment of a breath that they draw for half a blink—a moment of amusement that they will forget the second another one comes along.

I used to believe I was special—although I suppose we all did, in a way. I received them in my home, time and time again, meeting all their shapes and faces, and listening to all their drunken stories and sober confessions. I thought I had risen above what I was—a simple, foolish woman.

I wasn't in bed with any of them, if that is what you're thinking. I loved Marcus far too much to even consider it. It took me a while to understand why they respected that, and that's just one more reason why I am a fool.

The coffee cup in front of me is getting cold, and I have yet to have a sip.

She's late—always is. I should learn this by now, but I still arrive at least half an hour early.

The delicate, platinum watch on my wrist tells me I've been waiting for forty-five minutes. This watch is my favorite. It's an old Rolex I got back in the 30's, when it wasn't expensive as shit. It's a very good watch, to last almost a hundred years. It's been covered in blood, grime, mud, and dirt, and it still functions like the first day. Of course, I've gotten certain looks when I take it to the watchmaker to clean it, but he knows better than to ask.

He knows better than to ask about anything, really. That's what I like so much about Antonin. Good watchmaker. Minds his own business. Doesn't make smalltalk.

I focus on my clock and its inane diamonds—its boring face, and its eternally changing band. It's the only thing I change, really. I mean, after one hundred years of the same watch, something has to change, right?

And its not like I'm going to change the actual watch. Marcus gave me this watch. I wear it every day of my miserable existence to remind myself that time means nothing. The seconds tick by, and I'm no closer to the end line than I was when I got the goddamn thing.

I have to focus on these inane things to distract myself from her arrival. After so many meetings, you'd think I'd get used to it.

Nobody gets used to it. Not really. You're overwhelmed by her presence every time, and every time you say you're going to be fine, and then you aren't.

Because you're never, ever going to be fine around her. That's her whole thing, in a way.

I'm looking at my phone, watching the messages blow up my phone. Invitations, consultations, questions… they're all there. I just can't be bothered to answer them, you know?

I open the least annoying of the messages—a nurse from the OR. The cute one, with the freckles and the red hair. She's telling me that tonight they're going out, if I want to come with. I take a deep breath and tick off my list of excuses.

I'm halfway through writing that my grandma died when I feel her come in—because yes, I feel her come in. Everybody does.

The atmosphere changes. Everything is a little heavier, but some would say in a good way. Smiles are exchanged, glances pass by, a few slips of paper with phone numbers slip by… It's all very high school, if you believe the television. I wouldn't know, I've never been to a high school—at least not as a student.

I don't raise my sight until she's standing in front of my table, but when she does, I'm immediately drawn to her. Everybody is. You can't not be. It's part of her whole thing.

So I look up at her and she's smiling. That bitch is always smiling. You need to watch out for the furrowed brow though—when she looks like she's confused? That's when you know you've messed up.

It doesn't matter what she looks like, I always know it's her. Right now, she's a skinny blonde with giant Gucci shades and plum, natural pink lips that look as if she were a walking make-up ad, complete with photoshop. It's a little astounding, really—and more than a little off-putting.

"You're late," I say dryly. She quirks a corner of her lip upward, hanging her bag from behind her chair before pulling it back to sit.

"I'm never late," she says. "You were simply early."

I was, but that's besides the point.

"Besides, you haven't touched your coffee yet," she says, and at that moment, a waitress we didn't call shows up at our table with a new coffee for me and whatever god-forsaken concoction she's drinking. Whatever it is, I can almost see the sugar clumps forming on its surface.

"Why did you want to see me?" I ask dryly. "I'm sure this isn't a social visit."

She takes a sip of her drink and crinkles her nose, displeased. Before she has time to put it down on the table, a fresh cup is offered to her by the same waitress. She purses her lips, thinking.

"That's not nice of you to say," she points out. "Why can't it be a social visit?" I stare blankly. She sighs, exaggeratedly. "Alright, fine, it's him again."

I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. It's hard, but your life is infinitely less terrible when you don't anger her.

"What did he do?" I reach for my cup, just to have something to do with my hands, but the heat seeps through my skin and warms my limbs. I'd forgotten that it's autumn.

She waves her hand dismissively. "He keeps trying to take me on a catamaran. What even is that? And why would I want to go? And with him?"

I bite back another sigh and twirl the spoon in my coffee.

"One, a catamaran is a type of boat. Two, you go because its lovely. This time of year is cold, but I'm sure he can manage to keep you warm. And three, because he's your husband."

She shudders, as if the last sentence gives her the creeps. I mean, it probably does. Her husband is not a bad guy, but he isn't exactly a Calvin Klein model.

"Is that all?" I ask, feeling rather tired. I look back at my dainty watch. It's half past three, and I come into work at four. "I have to get going."

She pouts. "I just got here."

"Yes, late," I remind her. "I have to go to work."

"Oh please, you don't have to go to work. You do it because you want to."

"If I didn't, I'd be bored out of my skull all day long. So yeah, I want to. I didn't go to medical school to miss my shifts."

She considers my words for a second. "How many times does it make it now? Four times through medical school? By now you must know all the exams." She smirks. "Cheater."

"Are you done?" I ask and take another sip of my coffee. It's unsurprisingly bland. "Listen, just tell him you don't want to go to the catamaran. Hell, tell him you don't want to go anywhere. Just stay at home and watch Netflix. Or Hulu. Or whatever you guys have."

She scowls. "We have everything."

"Right," I sigh as I gather my purse. "Well, if that's everything—" I push my chair back, but before I can stand, I feel a gust of cold wind and start. There's something about the cold that—

I freeze.

"No," I whisper. Her lips curl into a smile.

"It's that time again. Don't tell me you forgot?" Her voice is sweet, but so is poison.

"No please, not now," I beg. She sighs dramatically.

"If not now, when?" She plays with her straw in her drink. "Really Sophia, you need to learn to handle things straight on."

"Just—" I feel my chest tighten. "Please, not yet." Panic rises like a bubble of air in my belly.

She's not moved, however. She never is. Her lips are still curled in a smile when I feel someone approach from my right and I feel my body still.

"Sorry," the voice says. Another voice singing the same song I've always known. "Do you mind if I take this?"

I swallow hard and take a deep breath. I'm standing on frozen glass and its cracking beneath my feet. I will fall, fall, fall, and she knows it.

"Happy Resurrection Day," she says brightly, and I can only clench my teeth.

Aphrodite can be a real bitch.