to a homeless couple.
To a pet-friendly, two-bedroom condo in Gramercy Park that she sells to a young stockbroker for $1.995 million.
To the Downtown Athletic Club, where she swims twenty laps in the seventy-five-foot heated pool and then gets a forty-five-minute massage.
To the Metropolitan Art Museum, where she spends three hours, most of it viewing a special exhibit of Cézanne.
To the farmer’s market in Union Square.
To a two-bedroom loft in SoHo.
To the Blue Note Jazz Club in Greenwich Village.
To a memorial for victims of the World Trade Center.
To a three-bedroom condo in Midtown.
To a bar called Bongo in Chelsea, where a hotshot twenty-eight-year-old financial planner buys her a drink.
Sure, it’s technically stalking, but I have a license. And it’s not like I’m going to chop her up and store her in my freezer. Still, she could do so much better than this loser. In less than ten years, he’s going to be in drug rehab to try to kick the cocaine habit that ate up most of his paychecks.
You’d think people on the Path of Destiny would manage to hook up with other people on the same path. Kind of like kindred souls who found each other through the chaotic journey of life. But I guess unless the people are destined for each other, they’re as likely to make bad relationship choices as the humans I have to deal with.
So I’m standing outside Bongo, watching Sara and the hotshot drug addict through the window, wondering if I should go inside to make sure this loser doesn’t slip some GHB into her drink. Sure, it’s a lame excuse. But I’ve been following Sara around for nearly a month and I’ve grown accustomed to her presence. I follow her almost everywhere.
To the park.
To the movie theater.
To the women’s locker room at her health club.
To the grocery store.
To the dry cleaner’s.
To her gynecologist appointment.
I’ve watched her overtip a cabdriver and compliment a kid with a mohawk and cry at a Kodak commercial. I’ve watched her walk into a sliding glass door and eat a Polish sausage and buy tampons. I’ve even watched her pick her nose. Only once, but it was a definite pick.
I’ve watched her day after day, night after night, and still I know nothing about what makes her special. All I’ve learned is that she sometimes laughs when she brushes her teeth. That her voice seems to resonate from deep within her throat. That the smell of her shampoo trails after her when she walks unknowingly past me. That she looks so content and beautiful when she’s sleeping or when she’s reading or when she’s sitting in Central Park watching the turtles.
And then it hits me.
I’ve fallen in love.
CHAPTER 11
Rule #7: Don’t fall in love.
Having sex with humans, while not encouraged, is tolerated more often than not. We have the Greek gods to thank for setting the precedent on that one. Even Jerry dipped his nib in the mortal ink once, so to speak. Which, of course, resulted in the birth of Josh and led to grumblings of nepotism among the rest of the immortals, but eventually we all got over it. Except for Resentment. Go figure.
But where the Greek gods often fathered progeny with their mortal conquests, other than Jerry the rest of us don’t have the ability to procreate. Wouldn’t do to have us flitting around the globe, creating half-Immortals and altering the gene pool. So while our DNA prevents us from breeding, even with one another, we can still get our groove on without creating any cosmic repercussions. But developing feelings for humans and contemplating or pursuing a relationship with them is a definite no-no.
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Why don’t you try talking to her?” says Honesty.
“Talk to her?” I say.
“It’s called communication,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “Women like that sort of thing.”
In cases like this, it helps to get some good advice, and I know Honesty will always be candid and confidential. She’s kind of like a
To a pet-friendly, two-bedroom condo in Gramercy Park that she sells to a young stockbroker for $1.995 million.
To the Downtown Athletic Club, where she swims twenty laps in the seventy-five-foot heated pool and then gets a forty-five-minute massage.
To the Metropolitan Art Museum, where she spends three hours, most of it viewing a special exhibit of Cézanne.
To the farmer’s market in Union Square.
To a two-bedroom loft in SoHo.
To the Blue Note Jazz Club in Greenwich Village.
To a memorial for victims of the World Trade Center.
To a three-bedroom condo in Midtown.
To a bar called Bongo in Chelsea, where a hotshot twenty-eight-year-old financial planner buys her a drink.
Sure, it’s technically stalking, but I have a license. And it’s not like I’m going to chop her up and store her in my freezer. Still, she could do so much better than this loser. In less than ten years, he’s going to be in drug rehab to try to kick the cocaine habit that ate up most of his paychecks.
You’d think people on the Path of Destiny would manage to hook up with other people on the same path. Kind of like kindred souls who found each other through the chaotic journey of life. But I guess unless the people are destined for each other, they’re as likely to make bad relationship choices as the humans I have to deal with.
So I’m standing outside Bongo, watching Sara and the hotshot drug addict through the window, wondering if I should go inside to make sure this loser doesn’t slip some GHB into her drink. Sure, it’s a lame excuse. But I’ve been following Sara around for nearly a month and I’ve grown accustomed to her presence. I follow her almost everywhere.
To the park.
To the movie theater.
To the women’s locker room at her health club.
To the grocery store.
To the dry cleaner’s.
To her gynecologist appointment.
I’ve watched her overtip a cabdriver and compliment a kid with a mohawk and cry at a Kodak commercial. I’ve watched her walk into a sliding glass door and eat a Polish sausage and buy tampons. I’ve even watched her pick her nose. Only once, but it was a definite pick.
I’ve watched her day after day, night after night, and still I know nothing about what makes her special. All I’ve learned is that she sometimes laughs when she brushes her teeth. That her voice seems to resonate from deep within her throat. That the smell of her shampoo trails after her when she walks unknowingly past me. That she looks so content and beautiful when she’s sleeping or when she’s reading or when she’s sitting in Central Park watching the turtles.
And then it hits me.
I’ve fallen in love.
CHAPTER 11
Rule #7: Don’t fall in love.
Having sex with humans, while not encouraged, is tolerated more often than not. We have the Greek gods to thank for setting the precedent on that one. Even Jerry dipped his nib in the mortal ink once, so to speak. Which, of course, resulted in the birth of Josh and led to grumblings of nepotism among the rest of the immortals, but eventually we all got over it. Except for Resentment. Go figure.
But where the Greek gods often fathered progeny with their mortal conquests, other than Jerry the rest of us don’t have the ability to procreate. Wouldn’t do to have us flitting around the globe, creating half-Immortals and altering the gene pool. So while our DNA prevents us from breeding, even with one another, we can still get our groove on without creating any cosmic repercussions. But developing feelings for humans and contemplating or pursuing a relationship with them is a definite no-no.
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Why don’t you try talking to her?” says Honesty.
“Talk to her?” I say.
“It’s called communication,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “Women like that sort of thing.”
In cases like this, it helps to get some good advice, and I know Honesty will always be candid and confidential. She’s kind of like a
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