Fated by S G Browne

feelings.
    Destiny just smiles as she slides her feet back into her pumps. “By the way,” she says, looking me up and down, “is that a new man suit?”
    First Honesty and now Secrecy? Doesn’t anyone adhere to any standards anymore?
    Destiny circles around me, licking her lips. “Looks good, Fabio. What happened to the one Secrecy stitched up for you?”
    “What did she tell you?” I ask.
    “Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” says Destiny. “She’s pretty talkative, that Secrecy, once she’s had a few drinks.”
    Great. Not only does Destiny know I’ve fallen in love with a mortal, but she knows about Amsterdam. But how much does she know? I guess it doesn’t matter. All Jerry needs is a reason to investigate one of my humans and discover I’ve altered his fate and before you know it, I’m shoveling brimstone dog shit at one of Satan’s dogfighting farms during Mardi Gras.
    “So what do you want from me?” I ask, as if I didn’t know.
    “Don’t worry, Fabio,” she says, sliding up close to me, her lips a breath away from my ear. “Your secret is safe with me.”
    And with that, she’s gone. Off to Las Vegas or Bangkok or wherever it is that omnipresent, immortal sluts go.
    When I return my attention to the mortals in the condo with me, Sara has excused herself to the balcony, where she’s enjoying the breathtaking view of Central Park, while the soon-to-be-divorced couple argues about the condo.
    The wife wants to buy it while the husband thinks it’s a bad idea. They can’t afford it. He’s lobbying for something smaller, maybe in Chelsea. But she’s not having any of that. She wants the floor-to-ceiling windows and the marble bathroom and the gourmet kitchen and the uptown prestige. She’s going to get her way, as usual, and he’s going to resent her for it. As usual.
    This is the death knell for their first go-round. They’ll buy the condo, live in it for less than two years, and then he’ll file for divorce. Five years later, after they’ve remarried, they’ll do it all again, only without the $2 million condo, but with the same results.
    Sometimes I feel like I’m a babysitter for a bunch of undisciplined, uncontrollable brats.
    It would make my job a lot easier if they didn’t buy this place, if he would just stand up to her and say, “No, we can’t afford it.”
    That’s all she wants, really. A strong, forceful man who stands his ground and takes control of situations. Someone who will make all of the decisions for her. Someone the complete opposite of her father, who fell apart when their mother died, so she, the oldest child, had to take care of the family until her younger siblings had graduated from high school.
    But he’s not that man. He wants to placate her, to make her happy, to give her the things she wants because he doesn’t realize he’s doing just the opposite. And so he sits there and surrenders to her arguments and acquiesces to her demands and submits to her every wish because he loves her and he just wants her to be happy rather than standing up for himself. Rather than taking charge of the situation and telling his controlling, baggage-carrying wife to just shut the hell up.
    That’s what I wish he would do. Right now. Take control of the situation. Show her he’s in charge. Be the man she wants him to be.
    Irritated and frustrated, both by this maddening couple and my encounter with Destiny, I walk over behind the couch, lean down close enough to George Baer that I can smell his sweat and cologne, and shout, “Just tell her to shut the hell up!”
    “Will you just shut the hell up?” he says.
    His wife and I stare at him, our lower jaws unhinged.
    “What?” she says.
    What? I think.
    “We’re not buying this place,” he says. “We can’t afford it. So we’re just going to have to find another place that’s more reasonably priced.”
    I don’t know who’s more surprised—her, the husband, or me. But just like that, I can see it