Fated by S G Browne

shoes. Her hair is pinned up and I can see the nape of her neck, pale and covered with a soft, downy coat.
    The thing about Sara Griffen is that she’s a mystery.
    I’ve encountered Sara leaving our apartment building on a couple of occasions and followed her around, trying to find out why I’m compelled by her, why she’s different from the future pedophile in apartment 502 or the woman in 1216 who’s going to spend the rest of her life discovering that plastic surgery can’t buy happiness. So far, all I can tell about Sara is that she likes to jog in Central Park, she eats a lot of take-out, and she can’t stand the sound of screaming babies.
    I’ve also discovered that she definitely has an effect on people.
    I watch the DMV agent at the window, watch him watching Sara, and I notice that rather than the surly countenance he displayed moments earlier, he’s more engaged. There’s a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before. An animation in his manner that is spirited. A smile that isn’t forced.
    Maybe it’s because he’s desperate to get laid and he hopes Sara will find him attractive. Maybe it’s because he just enjoys flirting with women. Or maybe it’s because there’s something about Sara that just makes him happier.
    What would make me happier is if I didn’t have to spend half my morning at the DMV.
    “D-fifty-one, please go to window number two.”
    As I watch her, I wonder again why Sara Griffen is on the Path of Destiny, what it is she has that makes her different from the soon-to-be-unemployed video game addict on my left and the seventeen-year-old future adulteress sitting to my right.
    I also wonder how I ended up with a lineup of underachievers and mediocre talents and marginal leaders while Destiny gets the Michael Jordans and the John Lennons and the Winston Churchills of the world. You’d think I’d remember something like that, but it’s kind of hard to recall the moments immediately after your creation. That’s when Jerry christened us with our job titles. Didn’t really give us a choice, which I think was by design. When you’ve just emerged out of the cosmic goo, blinking your eyes and wondering what the hell happened, the last thing you’re concerned about is how you’re going to earn a living. Still, it would have been nice to at least fill out an application.
    In spite of the fact that I can’t stand Destiny and I covet her client list, I also realize we need each other. And humans need us. Without Fate and Destiny, there would be no purpose for humans. No path to follow. No reason to exist.
    Think unnecessary.
    Think pointless.
    Think any Matrix sequel.
    So in essence, Destiny and I maintain the cosmic balance of human life on the planet.
    But I still can’t get a table on a Friday night at Elaine’s. And when it comes to speedy customer service at the DMV, they’re not exactly showering me with any perks.
    “R-thirty-eight, please go to window number eleven.”
    Ten minutes later, I’m still waiting for them to call my number when Sara Griffen walks out the door.
    I see her again a few days later in Central Park.
    I’m watching a four-year-old kid screaming at his mother to get him a strawberry-shortcake Good Humor ice-cream bar from an ice-cream cart when Sara comes jogging past in running shorts, a T-shirt, and a New York Mets baseball cap.
    For a moment I completely forget about the mother and her brat and watch Sara run past, singing silently along to whatever song is playing on the headphones of her iPod. And I’m not the only one who notices.
    The ice-cream-cart vendor looks up and follows Sara’s progress. A seventy-two-year-old man who’ll be dead before he’s seventy-five perks up as she passes. An eleven-year-old boy who has “college dropout” written all over him walks into a garbage can.
    Sure. It could just be that she has a really nice ass and a pair of legs that you’d beg to shave. Except women notice her as well. Young women. Old women.