The goddess of love lives in a loft apartment, on West 81st. She is tall, but never taller than her lovers. Her back is supple and muscular, but her bones do not show through her skin. Her hair is always a different colour, but nobody ever seems to notice. Her face is not marred by excessive beauty.
She grows tomatoes on her rooftop deck in the summertime, and in winter she puts out suet and seeds for the birds who linger in the city. By day she works as a waitress in a midtown bar & grill, because otherwise she would have no way of paying the rent. It is an undemanding job, but she earns good tips and gets to meet many people.
She has many lovers, of course. They come to visit at all hours, and although she is careful to schedule them at least one hour apart, the system occasionally breaks down through no fault of her own. Typically, one of her lovers will drop in unexpectedly while she is with another, and there will be terrible shouting and displays of anguish, and sometimes a fight. Occasionally a murder.
Murder is reponsible for the loss of quite a few of her lovers over the years. Suicide, too. Also, nervous breakdown, heart attacks, and freak automobile accidents. Never once, not once in ten thousand years, has a lover simply left her, never to return. She reads about it in the women's magazines, and thinks it must be terrible.
The god of war has a corner office on the 36th floor of a downtown tower. He runs a small but successful investment firm with 31 employees, and an exclusive list of clients. He is stern of face, and strong of body, but is never intimidating or overbearing. He always wears a charcoal grey suit with a blood-red tie. In all his years in this business, he has never lost a client.
His employees, too, are fiercely loyal. They sometimes retire, or move away, or die unexpectedly, but they never defect to another firm. Each solstice and equinox, he walks around the offices and personally delivers the quarter's bonus cheques to all of the employees. He knows every person's name, plus the names of their wives, husbands, children, and dogs. He asks after the health of each, their plans for the future, and if there is any other way he can help them achieve their goals. If he were not immortal, he would give his life for any one of them.
He lives on the upper east side, in a good but inconspicuous building with a hard-working doorman. His second-floor suite is not large, but has high ceilings and modern fixtures. The furnishings are simple, and might even be spartan if he didn't have to occasionally entertain and leave his guests with a good impression.
On Saturday nights, and sometimes other nights when he can make the time, he sees his lover, a lawyer by the name of Helen. Together they enjoy fine dining, off-off-Broadway theatre, and planning exotic vacations, which they never take. Secretly Helen wants to marry him and have his children, but she suspects that the time isn't right to confide this secret. Something just tells her that he isn't quite ready to settle down.
The god of war and the goddess of love both take the subway, because it is fast and they do not fear for their safety. He takes the number 6 green to and from work, while she takes the A train. Day to day, there is almost no chance that they would meet accidentally, but sometimes on weekends or in the evenings when they depart from their regular schedules they end up on different routes. Still, it was not until recently that they finally caught each other's eyes for the first time in many ages. It was on the A train, which the god of war was riding in order to meet Helen for dinner. The goddess of love was on her way home.
Their eyes met accidentally, once. Then again several times, trying to figure out if the other's face were attractive, or simply familiar.
``Hi,'' said the goddess of love, and then she looked down at her shoes in embarassment.
She got out at the Museum of Natural History, and noted that he followed her up to the surface and then down her street. But he slipped into a corner grocery before she came to her building. She stopped at the main entrance and looked behind her for a while before opening the door with her key.
It was not long before he buzzed her apartment.
``Hello?'' she said into the intercom.
``Hi. Are you the woman from the subway?''
``Come up,'' she said, and buzzed him in.
She ran into the bathroom to check her hair, and decided to quickly brush her teeth while she was there. She was a little concerned that she hadn't had time to change into something nicer.
A knock came at her door, and she checked the peephole before undoing the lock. ``Come in,'' she beckoned.
He stepped in far enough so that she could close the door behind him, but no further. Refastening the lock quietly, she studied his strong back and arms with furtive glances. She wanted to imprison herself within their warm and protective confines, but she was not yet sure how she would accomplish this.
``I brought you something,'' he said, turning to her.
She smiled. ``What is it?''
He opened his hand, and it contained a single egg, very white. She reached out and took it in her fingers, and it was warm from his palm. She lifted it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.
``Thank you,'' she said, and opened her eyes. ``Please come in and sit down. Can I pour you some wine?''
``No, I can't stay,'' he said, turning back to the door.
Her expression fell. ``What are you doing?''
``I'm sorry, but I'm meeting someone soon,'' he explained. ``I shouldn't be late.''
``You're leaving?''
``I must. It can't be helped.''
``No, don't go,'' she said, reaching out toward his arm. ``Please stay.''
``I can't,'' he said, opening the door. ``Good bye.'' He stepped out, and with a brief glance back through the door, he shut it tight. His footsteps receded toward the elevator.
The goddess of love stood there for several minutes, trying to figure out what had just transpired. She heard the elevator doors open and then close again, and then the hiss of water pipes from somewhere in the building. He was gone. He was here, and then he was gone, and he hadn't so much as touched her.
``Fuck!'' she screamed, and threw the egg at the door. It hit just above the peephole, and spread itself in a broad splatter of whites and yolk that dribbled slowly down to the floor. Fragments of eggshell clung to the viscera like shattered bones. ``Fuck!'' she screamed again, kicking at the door. She tore her coats down from their hooks, and threw them on the floor, and kicked them all, and screamed some more, and tore at her hair until it hurt, and then ran to her bad and flung herself down on it until her first lover of the evening rang up.
The god of war returned later that night. He rang her apartment while she was in bed with Jeremy, her second date that evening. She buzzed the god of war through before considering the consequences.
"You have to leave now, Jeremy," she said, once she had considered them.
"Why?"
"You can't stay."
"Who was that?"
A knock came at the apartment door. "Put your clothes on," she said, and threw on her own gown.
"Hi," she said when she opened the door for the god of war.
"Hello again," said the god of war, stepping inside.
"Hey," said Jeremy, still putting on his shirt as he stepped into the hallway. "Who are you?"
"It's none of your business," said the goddess of love. "Zip up your pants, for fucksake."
"What the hell is going on here?" snapped Jeremy, waving his hands in the air. "You're hot then cold. Who is this guy? Are you her husband?"
"Would you just shut up!" she shouted. "Get out!" She pushed him out the door, and slammed it while he was still shouting. The door rattled as he kicked it from out in the hall.
"I'm sorry I interrupted," said the god of war.
"No, don't be silly," she said. "Come in, please. I'm glad you came back. Will you have some of that wine now?"
"I think I will," said the god of war.
The god of war returned the next Saturday night, and the next. They arranged the meetings in advance, so as not to surprise any other lovers. The goddess of love took to cancelling her other Saturday night dates following the god of war, so that he could stay the night if he chose. After a time, she stopped scheduling others on Saturdays altogether, which caused all sorts of troubles during the rest of the week. Many of her lovers angrily accused her of seeing someone else, and there were several surprises and fights as seven days worth of lovers suddenly had to make do with six.
It was horribly, horribly exhausting, and the goddess of love soon realized that there was no sensible way to manage it all without scaling her work back to half-time, which was not an option. She briefly experimented with breakfast and lunchtime dates, but they didn't work out so well. There was only one solution: she had to dump some of her lovers.
But which? She agonized for days, but each had his (or her) own charms, and there was simply no way to rank them. Attraction was such a complex, multi-varied thing, it could not be measured on a simple numeric scale.
"Shit!" she exclaimed one afternoon at work, when the solution suddenly came upon her. "Sorry," she said to the customer she was serving. "Just realized something."
She would have to dump them all.
"Will you come up?" asked Helen, as they lingered at her building entrance after the show.
"Not tonight," said the god of war.
Helen nodded, raised her key to the door, and hesitated. She turned back to him.
"What is it?" he said.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," she said.
"I don't feel like it tonight," he said.
"You haven't felt like it for months, it seems."
"Yes, I suppose."
She swallowed, gathered her nerves. "Is there someone else?"
"Yes."
"I---" She nodded tightly. "What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing."
"What can I do better?"
"Nothing."
"Then why? Oh, fuck. You're not leaving me? Don't you leave me. I couldn't---" She pressed her lips tight and shook her head.
"Good night, Helen."
"That's it? `Good night, Helen?' That's all I get for three years? Three fucking years? You son of a bitch, I love you. Don't you do this. Don't you do this to me!" She stepped in, her hand raised to slap the god of war hard across the face.
He slapped her first, and she stumbled back, startled. She took a step forward again, but faltered when she saw that the god of war's fist was clenched and ready to strike another, much harder, blow.
"What's happened to you?" she said.
The god of war shook his head, and stepped back. Then he turned and walked away.
"Don't you go!" she said. "Don't walk away from me! You've never walked away from anything in your life!"
He kept walking.
The goddess of love lay in the god of war's arms at the stroke of one. Both were wide awake, recollecting the day's jiltings and listening to traffic passing on the streets below.
The buzzer rang. Neither of them moved. It rang again, and rang, and rang.
The goddess of love sighed, pulled the blankets aside, and stepped naked from the bed. The god of war heard her conversing with someone through the intercom.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's Jeremy," came a voice from the intercom.
"It's one o'clock, Jeremy."
"Let me in. I have to talk to you."
"No. I already told you everything on the phone."
"I really have to talk. Let me in."
"I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"Fucking let me in, or I'll---"
There was a click, and the goddess of love returned to the bedroom shaking her head angrily. The buzzer started ringing again.
The god of war turned over. "How many more will there be?" he asked. This was the third one since he arrived.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's not usually like this."
"Let's go to my place," he said.
They got dressed and left the apartment. Jeremy was standing on the stairs at the building entrance.
"Oh I shoulda known," said Jeremy. "How long has this been going on? How long have you been jerking me around?"
"Get away from me, you jerk," said the goddess of love.
"Is that how you talk to me now?" said Jeremy. "Is that how you talk now you bitch? You run around with another guy you bitch, and you call me a jerk?"
"I ran around with lots of guys, Jeremy. Dozens. Hundreds maybe since I first met you. Get lost."
"What, you some kinda whore? You fucking whore!"
"Don't talk to her like that," said the god of war.
"Shut up! Do me a favor and shut the fuck up. I'll fucking cut you to pieces if you don't get the fuck away from me!" With that, Jeremy pulled out a switchblade knife and waved it at the god of war.
"Put that away, you asshole!" shouted the goddess of love. She stepped in to grab the knife, and Jeremy backhanded her.
The god of war leapt forward, grabbing for Jeremy's arm. The knife flashed forward, plunging into the god of war's abdomen just before he pushed Jeremy violently down the stairs. Jeremy's head hit the bottom step with a meaty crack, and his body crumpled up on the sidewalk.
"Shit, you're bleeding," said the goddess of love.
The god of war looked down to see his shirt all bloodied. He pulled his jacket closed to hide the mess. "Let's go," he said, stepping down over Jeremy's body, and leading the way to the nearest subway station.
They rode in silence, the goddess of love occasionally trying to open the god of war's jacket to see how bad his wound was, but he held it tightly closed and wouldn't talk about it.
They walked down the last block to the god of war's building. It was late and the doorman was off duty, but someone was still standing in the entryway.
"Hello, Helen," said the god of war.
"Is this her?" said Helen, looking at the goddess of love. "Is this what you're leaving me for? She looks like a waitress, for Christ's sake."
"I am a waitress," said the goddess of love.
Helen laughed bitterly. "I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever I did wrong. Look, I don't know what you see... I mean, I'm sure she's very fun, or good in bed, or younger looking, or something. I don't know. It's okay for you to see her, I decided. It's okay, and I won't complain, but please don't leave me. I'll do anything. Anything, for you."
"Holy crap," said the goddess of love.
"I don't want anything," said the god of war.
"Sorry honey," said the goddess of love to Helen. "It's been a shitty day for everyone."
"You shut your little---" started Helen, but then caught herself. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," said the goddess of love. "You're the one who got dumped."
"You little skank!" Helen's eyes flared, and suddenly her hand emerged from her purse with a gun in it. There were popping sounds and flashes, and the goddess of love fell on the sidewalk clutching her chest.
"No!" shouted the god of war, stooping toward the goddess of love. He turned to look back, and saw that Helen had the gun levelled at him. It was trembling as she tried to squeeze the trigger.
"Helen," he said.
"I can't," she said. "I can't do it."
The god of war looked down at the goddess of love, who was struggling to breathe as she lay on the ground. There was another popping sound, and when the god of war looked back, Helen was lying on the sidewalk, with blood coming from her head.
"Get up!" wheezed the god of war, pulling at the goddess of love's arms. "Get up! We have to get out of here!" He dragged her to her feet and, they stumbled back up the street, heading toward the subways.
"My chest hurts," moaned the goddess of love, coughing. She wiped at her mouth and noticed blood on her sleeve.
The god of war dragged her down the stairs into the subway station. They caught a train heading north, toward the Bronx. The car was nearly empty. They sat down together, smearing blood across the seats.
The lights of the train flickered, and the goddess of love coughed up more blood.
"You'll be all right," said the god of war, and she believed him.
The god of the underworld lives in an unused steam tunnel beneath 112th Street. He subsists on pidgeons, canned dog food, and lots of Chinese cooking wine. Everything he owns, including a fake Rolex watch, a plastic-handled steak knife, a set of NYPD tempered steel handcuffs with keys, and a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo, he keeps in the pockets of his trenchcoat, which smells very bad.
After dark he sometimes heads above ground to beg, or to buy things with the change he begged the previous night, or to ride the subways back and forth, waiting for opportunities of any kind to cross his path.
"You kids got any spare change?" he asked the lone couple on the train tonight. "Maybe a couple dollars to spare for an old timer who's seen better days?"
"We've all seen better days," said the man, and the god of the underworld noticed that he was covered in blood, and so was the woman.
"I see what you mean," said the god of the underworld. "Are you going to a hospital?"
"No," said the man.
"Just trying to get away," said the woman.
"Eh? From what?"
"People," said the woman.
"I hear ya," said the god of the underworld. "I do the same all the time myself. Was a time, I was a real bigwig. Everyone respected me, and I mean everyone. You asked around back then, and people knew me. Everyone came to see me at some point, if you follow me. But kids these days, you know? They got different beliefs. There's nothing left. Nothing at all. But what can you do? Hey, I got a funny feeling about you two, though. A funny feeling. Bugger if I ain't got a funny feeling."
"What's that?" said the man.
The god of the underworld squinted at him. "I got a feeling you can spare a dollar for a washed up old bastard like me."
The man pulled out his wallet. He produced a one hundred dollar bill and gave it to the god of the underworld.
The god of the underworld pulled the bill taught between his hands and inspected it with wide eyes. "Well, well," he said. "Now that'll boost my standard of living for a while. It's gonna be just like old times."
"Old times," mused the god of war.
"Sounds nice," said the goddess of love.