[It's something. Writing still isn't as fluid as I'd like it to be, but it's fun again. Problem is, there are so many pieces to this story, it's hard to keep them all together. Hint at this here, show a bit of that there, and--doh! I left something out!
[Ah, well. You get what you pay for.]
Vera Mason woke up with dry lips. In fact, her whole body felt dry, and her chest was stuffed with quilt batting. She opened her eyes and the room was black. Then she realized her eyes were still closed. That was strange. She was sure she’d opened them. She tried again. Still dark. She blinked, and the room came into focus. It wasn’t dark, just dim. Something clear was hanging above her head, like a floating blister. Ah, an IV bag, or whatever it was called. Who was it hooked up to?
The pieces fell into place: the Thai restaurant, the panicked feeling as breathing became harder and harder, and then impossible. That toothpick of a waiter, hadn’t she told him about peanuts? She was sure she had, and his face had been quick, intelligent. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Maybe she’d misjudged him?
She blinked again and tried to swallow. It ached, like her throat was bruised from the inside. What did they do to treat anaphylactic shock? Whatever they’d done, it had worked, apparently. So why didn’t she feel better? She should be feeling better. She’d inherited the power of a god.
Where was it?
“Are you awake, Senora Mason?”
Vera rolled her head sideways. They were there together, the Spanish husband and wife, like they usually were. Jose was standing behind the chair, his posture gently erect under his white hair, and Maria Teresa sat, her knees together, her hands folded on her lap. It was as if the elderly couple were posing for a portrait that would be hung at one of the several universities they’d sponsored over the years. The small table next to them was covered in a surprisingly large yet somehow tasteful floral arrangement.
Vera licked her lips again. “What time is it?” she whispered.
“Slightly after six in the morning,” said Jose.
“Then how?” Vera had to stop to swallow.
“How what, Senora?”
“How did you get flowers?”
Jose’s eyebrows came down--he found Vera’s sense of humor perplexing--but Maria Teresa smiled. “Money is good for very few things,” she said. “Flowers at six in the morning is one of those few. But I suspect that what you’re truly wondering is how we found you at the hospital.”
Vera had been wondering exactly that, and she had come up with only one possible answer. “Followed,” she croaked, and realized that her heart rate was up. She took a breath and tried to slow her breathing.
“Yes, treasure, we had you followed.” Maria Teresa’s voice was soothing, or at least it was intended to be. Vera wasn’t sure yet whether she’d let it be calming or not. The elderly woman went on. “We always said we would let you do this, but we would never leave you without support. We had you followed, but he stayed well away. We wouldn’t do anything to confuse the link between yourself and that unfortunate Mr. Baernson. The transfer of power to you was as complete as possible.”
Vera felt herself deflate. “Not complete,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”
Jose sniffed. Vera knew him well enough by now to know that counted as an expression of deep concern--the man was practically shouting--but she didn’t have any better news to offer them. She didn’t know how it had happened, but the power that had poured into her, slowly at first, then in a rush as she waited for her food--all that was gone. She couldn’t feel that flood anymore. Absent. Empty. Nothing.
“Are you certain?” asked Maria Teresa, her voice quiet. “I think it’s possible that the power might not have departed you entirely.”
Vera took a quick assessment of her situation. Chest, aching like a small child was jumping on her. Head, aching like the first child had an older brother. Throat, dry; legs, stiff: nose, slightly clogged. She felt like an overused cloth handkerchief.
“Pretty sure it’s gone,” she whispered, or tried to. Gone was the only word that came out clearly.
“Perhaps not,” said Maria Teresa. “Consider for a moment what you’ve been through. According to your very pleasant nurse, who seemed to know his business, you were dead for nearly ten minutes. That means more than five minutes without oxygen reaching your brain, a condition that almost inevitably results in brain damage, comas, and other unpleasant things.” The elderly woman smiled. “And yet, here you are, awake and questioning not only our choice to have you followed, but our decisions on floral arrangements. These are not the normal reactions of a person who should be in a coma. So I ask you again, Vera, are you certain the power is gone?”
Dead, thought Vera. She had been dead. Her mind had heard the rest of what Maria Teresa had said, but what caught in her mind was that one word: dead. So close. So close to being with Steven again--but they had brought her back. She took a deep breath--as deep as she could--and let it go. Not yet, she supposed. Still something to do, something to take care of.
Vera forced herself to consider the rest of what Maria Teresa had said. Ten minutes without oxygen to her brain should have caused brain damage. How would a person tell if she were brain damaged? Not having any way to judge, Vera supposed that she’d have to go based on how she felt, and aside from feeling terrible, she felt fine. She knew who she was, where she was, and why she was there. And, practically speaking, if she were brain damaged, would it make any difference? She’d just have to go on with what she had and make do.
But if she should be comatose, and she wasn’t--which she wasn’t--then it was a distinct possibility that Maria Teresa was right: the power wasn’t gone. But if she still had it, why was it so weak? With the power Forgotten Zed had stored up, she should be ready to run a marathon, lift a car, or both at the same time.
Vera breathed in sharply and started coughing. She could see the elderly couple watching her, leaning forward in concern, but she had enough energy to wave them back with the hand not attached to an IV. I’m okay, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t. For the first time she was facing the possibility that she may have done everything right, but would still fail. What if this was all the power that Forgotten Zed had? What if he had squandered it, his violent inheritance from his father, daughters, sons, wife? She could imagine the old man, cut off from his faithful, from anyone to be faithful to, saving only enough power to keep himself past any use or usefulness. And then, in a final betrayal that the ancient god couldn’t even know he was committing, he would die and leave Vera with just enough power to fail, so close to her goal.
She blinked at tears. She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t, because this was her only chance. The Three might not show themselves again for another ten, twenty, fifty years, and the odds that Jose and Maria Teresa could guess the next target accurately were impossibly slim. Maria Teresa had explained one night over a cup of tea, calmly discussing the millions they had spent, the years they had dedicated to finding these god-killers, finding who they were, what they wanted, what their weaknesses might be.
Finally they had hit on two critical pieces of information: the leader of the Three hated Forgotten Zed, and, for the first time in centuries, Forgotten Zed was in the news again. It was a chance, and perhaps the only chance in any of their lifetimes. They would go to Northern Lights, Wisconsin, and they would do what they had to. The Three wouldn’t hurt any more innocents.
So there was no stopping now. Vera left the tears to dry on her cheeks and turned back to the Spanish couple. “Water,” she said, and Jose stepped forward to give her a drink from the bottle waiting on her table. He leaned over her as she drank, helping her take a sip, then two, then gently pulled the bottle away. He was looking down at her, and Vera met his gaze. Jose grunted and smiled, turning back to Maria Teresa and saying something in Spanish. He pressed the bottle back into Vera’s hand and stepped back behind his wife.
“What did he say?” asked Vera.
“He said that you’re back.”
Vera smiled. Jose was right. She was back, and it was time to get moving.
“Do we know who got the rest of the power?” she asked.
“We assume it was the waiter or the chef,” said Maria Teresa. “We’re having them both followed. When you’re ready, you can go have a talk with them.”
When she was ready. That wasn’t soon enough for Vera, but it would have to be. Patience. With the power of a god in her--even just a fraction of that power--she should be mobile again quickly. And if the Three were as clever as she knew they were, going against them at less than one-hundred percent was suicide. Vera didn’t believe in suicide.
She believed in revenge.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Our story so far.
At the request of Liz, here's a google doc of the entire story so far. I hope you enjoy it, and I can promise there's more on the way soon.
Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc
Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 12
[This wasn't the hardest thing I've ever written. (No, that's always the next section.) But it was hard figuring out that it had to be written. I was trying to bring over a scene from my first attempt at this novel, and it wasn't working. I finally figured out why: the scene no longer had a purpose in the story.
[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.
[Yay.]
Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
“Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
“You’re in my house,” said Will.
“We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
“What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
“Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
“Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
There was silence again.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
“No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
“Sure. The man and the woman.”
“We heard there was a third.”
Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
Will blinked. “What?”
“He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
“That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
“Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
“Find out who killed the extra man.”
The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
“But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
“The only ones,” said the man.
“Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
“There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
“Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.
[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.
[Yay.]
Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
“Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
“You’re in my house,” said Will.
“We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
“What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
“Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
“Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
“Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
There was silence again.
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
“No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
“Sure. The man and the woman.”
“We heard there was a third.”
Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
Will blinked. “What?”
“He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
“That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
“Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
“Find out who killed the extra man.”
The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
“But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
“The only ones,” said the man.
“Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
“There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
“Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 11
[I ground every word of this section out of a chunk of solid granite, using nothing more than my fingernails and a grim determination.
[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]
When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.
Bradley showered.
Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
And almost ran into Olivia.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
"Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
"Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
"Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
"Yes?"
"Did something happen?"
How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
"Does that matter?"
"I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
"Owls?"
"Owls."
Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
"There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
"Fascinating," said Olivia.
"I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
"I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
"Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
"I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.
[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]
When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.
Bradley showered.
Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
And almost ran into Olivia.
"Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
"Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
"Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
"Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
"Yes?"
"Did something happen?"
How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
"Does that matter?"
"I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
"Owls?"
"Owls."
Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
"There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
"Fascinating," said Olivia.
"I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
"I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
"Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
"I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.
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