Fated (17 page)

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Authors: S. G. Browne

Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction

BOOK: Fated
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Sounds familiar.
“They’re just human,” I say. “They can’t help it.”
“Sure they can,” says Karma, his voice rising. “But instead, all they focus on is how much money they make or what kind of car they drive or whose name is on the label of their underwear.”
Half of the patrons in the restaurant are looking our way.
“Go back to your pathetic little human thoughts about money and personal possessions,” he shouts.
“Maybe you should tone it down,” I say.
Karma stands up on his chair, still holding on to his empty beer bottle, and shouts, “How about a little less focus on material goods and a little more emphasis on personal reflection?”
Not exactly what I meant by “toning it down.”
I glance over at the manager, who is headed our way.
“Maybe we should leave,” I say.
“Good idea,” says Karma, then blinks out of existence, leaving me to deal with the aftermath and stiffing me with the bill.
CHAPTER 24
When I get
home, Sara is waiting for me in my apartment.
It probably wasn’t the smartest idea for me to give her a key. Not that I don’t trust her or enjoy being greeted with a kiss and a warm embrace. The problem is, I’m used to just transporting in and out of the comfort of my apartment, which is tough to do when your mortal girlfriend has prepared a romantic evening.
I completely forgot about date night.
I walk through the front door, worn out from my latest attempts to help my humans rediscover their optimal paths. Sure, when you have the ability to transport at the speed of light, transcontinental travel is a piece of cake. But when you hit four continents and thirty-two countries in three days while trying to improve the fates of humans and reconcile with Death, you just want to take a hot shower, wring out your man suit, and call it a day.
Date night was Sara’s idea. Not that we don’t spend a lot of time together. Probably more than we should, since I’m behind on my quotas and our relationship isn’t exactly sanctioned by Jerry. But considering my odd working hours and the fact that I keep making excuses about why we never go out together in public, Sara wanted to set aside one evening for the two of us to do something special.
So before I even have a chance to take a shower or change my clothes, Sara leads me over to the couch for a game of strip Scrabble.
The rules of strip Scrabble are pretty simple:
1.
A player who cannot score higher than the other player in any given round must remove an article of clothing;
2.
A player who spells a sexual word gets to make the other player remove an article of clothing and is also exempt from removing any clothing during that same round, even if he has the lowest score of the round;
3.
If a player challenges a word and wins, he can put an article of clothing back on, but if he loses, he must remove an article of clothing;
4.
The winner of the game can make one request of the losing player.
It’s a fun and informative way to get naked. Since I’m the host, I let Sara go first, which turns out to be a mistake. Not only does she get the automatic double word score, but she spells the word
fated
.
For some reason, this doesn’t strike me as amusing.
“So how was your trip?” asks Sara.
“Fine,” I say.
“Did you do anything fun?”
“Not really.”
I spell the word
tits
. It’s worth only six points to Sara’s twenty-two, but, invoking the second rule, I make her lose her sweater.
“What did you do?”
“Just work stuff,” I say, shuffling my letters around. When I look up from my tile rack, I can tell from the expression on her face that Sara’s upset about something.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s just that you never want to share anything about your work.”
Sara spells the word
aloof
.
“It’s not that interesting,” I say.
“It’s interesting to me,” says Sara.
“Why?” I ask. Honestly, who would want to hear about what someone does who allegedly works in international commodities?
“Because it’s part of what you do,” says Sara. “It’s part of who you are.”
I spell the word
crap
and take off one of my socks.
So being as vague as possible, I tell her how I handle millions of clients and how most of them tend to lack good judgment and make bad decisions.
“Aren’t you supposed to advise them?” she asks, spelling the word
semen
for a double word score. “Give them some guidance?”
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because.”
All I have are vowels and one-point consonants, so the best I can do is
stall
. Since Sara won the round and spelled a sexual word, that counts for two articles of clothing. So I lose the other sock and my shirt.
“Because why?” asks Sara.
“It’s complicated.”
“Give me an example,” she says.
“Can’t we talk about something else?”
Sara spells the word
whine
, then folds her arms and stares across the table at me, a slight smirk on her face.
“Okay,” I say. “It’s like this. My clients seldom do what they’re supposed to do. So even with my advice and guidance, there’s no guarantee they’ll follow it. And even if they do, chances are they’ll screw it up somewhere down the road.”
Sara looks at me, then cocks her head to one side. “Are you sure you should be in customer service?”
“The problem is, most people never realize their potential,” I say. “Instead, they allow it to get buried beneath all of the societal expectations and the constant routine of an existence that condemns them to their fate.”
I spell the word
loser
and remove my pants.
“You know what I believe?” says Sara, shuffling the tiles on her rack. “I believe people try to do their best. That even when they’re struggling or making bad decisions, they’re still working toward a greater purpose.”
I try to keep a straight face, but her naïveté is just so cute.
Sara spells the word
hope
.
The thing about Sara is that she’s sincere.
“Yeah, well, most of the people I do business with have a history of making bad decisions,” I say.
“Then do something else,” says Sara. “Something where you can work with other people who won’t disappoint you.”
“That job’s already taken,” I say.
I spell the word
whore
.
With my double victory, Sara removes her jeans and her bra, leaving both of us in just our underwear, though she’s still wearing her socks.
“Besides, some of my clients are actually starting to listen to me,” I say. “So I think I’ll stick with them and see what happens.”
Sara looks across the table at me and smiles. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For sharing,” she says, then spells the word
fellatio
.
From the look on Sara’s face and the fact that I can’t possibly outscore her, I slip out of my underwear and wait for her to claim the spoils of her victory. Hopefully by performing her winning word.
With a seductive smile and a playful glance, Sara gets up from the table, takes me by the hand, and leads me over to the couch.
“You want to try something new?” she asks.
“You won,” I say, lying down. “Whatever you want.”
Sara straddles me, one hand on either side of my head, her face inches from mine. She leans down to kiss me, her lips parting, her tongue provocatively moist; then she slides away at the last moment and heads down toward my waist. I watch her move past my perfect, hairless, sculpted chest, past my flat, six-pack stomach; then I lean back and close my eyes, feeling her breath caress me, the anticipation almost too much for me to bear.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but at some point I realize I’m still waiting for physical contact. When I open my eyes, I look down to find Sara performing a simulation of oral sex.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she says, looking up at me.
“Why are you pretending to give me a blow job?”
“It’s called noncontact sex,” she says, crawling toward me until her hips are above mine, moving back and forth without touching me. “Delilah told me about it. Said it was better than actual intercourse.”
Great. I leave for two days and Destiny convinces my girlfriend to stop having sex with me.
“What do you think?” asks Sara.
I think Destiny’s been spending too much time with my girlfriend—that’s what I think.
I imagine her watching us, hiding in the corner, wearing red stockings and garters and hip-hugger panties and a red push-up bra, smirking while eating a red candied apple.
Used to be just thinking about Destiny in an outfit like that would turn me on. And I always did get a thrill watching a woman eat an apple. I’m a sucker for religious symbolism. But with Sara floating above me, her gorgeous face as sublime as anything Michelangelo ever sculpted, I find the allure of Destiny a distraction. I don’t want to think about her. I just want to think about Sara. About how I feel when I’m with her. About how I treasure every moment we spend together. About how I feel more complete. Like I’ve been missing something my entire existence and I didn’t even realize what I was missing until I found her.
She’s honest and compassionate.
She’s generous and sincere.
She’s patient and understanding.
In short, she’s all the things I’m not.
It’s as though in Sara, I’ve found my perfect complement. She’s the eraser to my pencil. The Camembert to my baguette. The yin to my yang.
I look up at Sara and find her looking down at me, a soft smile touching her lips, her eyes focused on mine, and I realize I don’t care that Destiny has befriended my girlfriend. I don’t care that she’s trying to disrupt our sex life by teaching Sara about noncontact sex. The joke’s on her. I feel closer to Sara now than ever before.
CHAPTER 25
It never ceases
to amaze me how human beings constantly seek happiness in instant gratification.
Cell phones. E-mail. Overnight delivery.
Fast food. Microwaves. Prepackaged meals.
Credit cards. ATMs. Lottery tickets.
No one wants to delay their gratification. To wait for a reply or a package. To work to achieve or obtain financial success. They want the house and the car and the marriage and the family and the condo in Hawaii and they want it
now
.
Take the twenty-six-year-old disillusioned ex-high school star quarterback and his twenty-two-year-old superficial wife, for example.
They’re walking down the Champs-Élysées, decked out in Versace and Fendi and Gucci, their hands filled with bags filled with packages filled with Lacoste and Cartier and Louis Vuitton. They can’t afford what they’re wearing, let alone what they’ve purchased. They can’t even afford the trip to Paris, but they feel entitled to the luxury and to the lifestyle because of their good looks and their untapped potential for greatness.
If only they knew that in less than ten years they’ll both be divorced, remarried, and divorced again, working in cubicles without any natural lighting, and still paying off the credit card bills from this vacation.
Of course, they’re not the only ones indulging in excess on the most famous avenue in Paris. Thousands of other consumers from all over the world are here to patronize the specialty shops and dine in the chic bistros and cafés and be seen in one of the hip clubs.
Realtors and artists and financial consultants.
Writers and dog trainers and CEOs.
Architects and editors and interior decorators.
All of them looking for something to make them feel special. To make them feel desirable. To make them feel like they belong.
All of them looking for instant gratification.
Well, maybe not all of them, but most of them. Enough to keep me busy for a few hours trying to convince as many of these misguided humans as I can that the key to divining a more beneficial fate lies not in filling up the emptiness of their lives with material goods but with personal reflection.
I’m beginning to sound like Karma.

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