"Resurrection Day" is actually a misnomer, but she doesn't care.
Resurrection implies that somebody dead comes back to life. That's not exactly the case here.
The voice next to me clears it's throat, and I struggle to find my words. Against my better judgment, I look to my left, and allow my eyes to trail up the powder blue button up shirt and across the pointed chin and chipped tooth and crooked nose and green eyes under bushy, black eyebrows I know so well. He waits for a second, and I realize he wants my answer. I cough awkwardly.
"Yes," I say, my voice deflated. It sounds like air leaving a balloon rather than an actual word, but it does the trick. He smiles gratefully and takes the sugar from the table before turning around and walking back to his own table, where he sits alone. My eyes linger on him for a moment, and I feel like crying.
"He wasn't here," I whisper, and then glare furiously at Aphrodite. "He wasn't here. I would've seen him."
Aphrodite shrugs. "He might've walked into another coffee house. What difference does it make?" She leans her elbows on the table and holds her chin up on the back of her hand. "That's not important though, is it?" She pouts mockingly. "Don't tell me you're going to hover around that tiny detail. I had to have him make an entrance. I mean, it's much better than back in Boston, don't you think?"
I glare at her, but she's unfazed. By now I know that nothing I do really bothers her, but she likes to play with me like a cat and mouse. This only makes me saltier.
"That was our shortest run, wasn't it? How long did it last? Three weeks?" She shrugs and sips her coffee. "That one was boring. We won't repeat it."
"I'll write a Thank You letter," I say dryly. She laughs, delighted.
"You know, Sophia, you're much too pretty for that surly expression." Her lip curls into a little smile. "You should learn to ease into life. One would think you would've learned that by now."
I scowl. "It's Emma," I correct, but she just rolls her eyes, finally setting her empty cup down.
"I always say you should stick with Sophia. It's the prettiest." She purses her lips.
"Right," I say curtly, and this time, I take the last swig of my coffee and rise from the chair. "If you're done tormenting me, I have places to be."
Aphrodite sighs exaggeratedly and pouts. The gesture is far too childish to be beautiful, but its still somewhat lovely.
"And here I thought we could have a good bond and celebrate the day."
I snap. "Celebrate what? My misery? Don't you have enough of that, I don't know, every other day in existence?"
The air from the heater stops blowing and the patrons stop moving. There is an eerie stillness in the room, and the air is stifling. Aphrodite is still smiling, but her eyes are cold, cold, cold.
"Now, now, Sophia," she says lightly, her voice dropping an octave. "You know you don't want to do that."
I feel as if my throat is closing up, but I manage to hold her gaze. Clenching my teeth, a huff through the nose.
"Fine," I say, and just as quickly as it left, the atmosphere comes back into the room and the patrons are free to move, completely unaware of what just happened.
"I was just saying," she begins, as if nothing has happened. I don't know what's more terrifying, her whims or her complete and utter disinterest. "It's been what? Thirty years? Surely you miss Marcus."
And I do. Of course I do. I miss Marcus every day of my miserable, eternal existence. When I'm alone or when I'm with him—knowing that all the memories of past lives only exist in my perfect, cursed memory—it feels like the waves of the sea are slamming me against the shore, over and over again. I'm tormented by memories that no one in this world shares, except in some footnote of one or two history books.
(I modestly accept that I might have had to do with one or two historical events.)
I sigh, and suddenly the weight of my years lands on my shoulders. It's been long, far too long, since those days in which my main concern was which meal I was going to serve. I remember it clearly, the same way I remember everything clearly, like looking into a glass and seeing every single one of my memories unfold. You'd think that it would drive me mad, but it just makes me melancholic. Sometimes, it almost feels like I can reach out and touch those memories—touch Marcus, or Daniel, or Megan, or whatever he's called in that precise moment.
"How many runs is it this time?" She asks after thinking for a few seconds. "Thirty two?"
I glare. "Thirty six."
She shrugs, as if it unimportant. As if its just a fact that means nothing to her, like getting the date wrong. She shrugs like there's no weight on her shoulders—in fact, that's precisely what it is. There is no weight on her shoulders. Aphrodite saunters in and out of existence easily like water, feeling the crevices she feels like filling, and leaving the moment she feels satisfied.
If only she were satisfied with me already.
"Only sixty four to go, then," she says offhandedly. "Sixty three, after this one."
I stare at my cup for a moment. It's no longer steaming, and I barely touched it at all, and suddenly the liquid seems more like dirty water than coffee.
"How long do I have to do this?" I ask quietly before looking up at her. I try to keep my voice neutral, but the notes of desperation filter through the holes of my breath. "When are you going to be satisfied?"
She does not seem pleased at my question. Not displeased, either. Curious, maybe. She considers it carefully, like it never occurred to her.
"You need to fulfill your punishment. Otherwise, it gives the others the idea that we're lenient. We can't have that, can we?"
"What others?" I ask tiredly. "There are no others. Everyone else has shown leniency. Why can't you?"
She cocks her head to the side, thinking, and blinks. "It's not often that I dole out punishment. I need to make sure you've learned your lesson."
"But I have," my voice is weak. It feels glassy and delicate and pathetic, but right now, I don't care. Marcus is here. I can't deal with that. "What can I do to prove it?"
Aphrodite hums, thinking. "I'll get back to you on that," she says finally before sitting back and crossing her arms.
I sigh and shake my head before twisting and taking my purse. "I have to go."
She scowls. "So soon?"
"You're the one who was late. I have a shift at three."
She rolls her eyes. "Boring."
I don't give her an answer as I leave the café, but that's mostly cause I don't know what else to say.
I never know what else to say. She is fickle and tempestuous and a well rounded bitch, and I don't know how to deal with her—I never have.
As I reach my car and open the door, I can only think of Marcus's green eyes, and I wonder how my heart is going to break this time