Through millennia of fire and pain, dark emotions have swirled around him as he cultivates the misery of his charges. “One would think,” he often mutters aloud, “that being the Lord of the Underworld would be cake,” yet the boredom of his life stokes his desire for change.

Often, as he wanders along the many firey, rocky paths that criss-cross Hell, he thinks about alternatives to his eternal duty, “What would it be like," he might wonder,"to find a nice woman, sit on a beach, sip margaritas, and laugh together?”

As he wanders through his terrain, his cloven hooves kick at a glowing coals that have tumbled from the many peaks above the paths. He watches idly as they curve up, sparks flying, sometimes landing on random denizens of Hell, causing their rags or hair to smolder, or maybe! catch fire so they panic and swat frantically at the rising flames. As a real treat, one might stop, drop and roll all the while screaming in fear and angony.

When this happens, The Devil laughs, a throaty laugh filled with venom and tar, and he thinks, “That was fun … but still … margaritas sound nice, too ...”

I was sitting in the chair, off to the side, out of the way, listening to the machines beep and boop as my step-mom quietly whispered, over and over, “please come … please come ...” when I realized my dad was there. He stood over Frannie’s bed and held his hand out to her as if he were going to help her to get up out of the bed.

Frannie put her hand in his and began to sit up, but then lay back down again and crossed her arms over her belly.

He’s here to take her, I thought. I felt the tears slowly fill my eyes. After Frannie withdrew her hand from his, he walked to the empty chair between Frannie and I and sat down.

“She’s ready?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “it’s time, but she says she doesn’t want to go. I can’t make her.”

I nodded, and we sat in silence for several minutes before he left.

I sat in my chair and listened to the machines beep and boop as my step-mom quietly whispered, over and over, “please come … please come ...” and I wondered at what she missed.

Jenna nodded to the host, “Yes, this is good. Thank you,” and he walked away, leaving her to settle into her seat.

She ordered a white wine, pulled out her smartphone, and opened her dating app. She clicked the link to Ryan’s profile, and his head-shot popped up. A quiet “ouf” escaped her. He was one good-looking man: large brown eyes, barely tamed short, dark curls, planed cheeks, strong jaw. The pic caught his bare shoulders … generally she didn’t like men who took shirtless pics, but Ryan's muscles overrode her generalizations. They had swapped several messages, and she found him funny, interesting and a bit mysterious.

Shortly, Jenna heard heavy clopping. “No,” she thought, “Nooo ...,” her head jerked up from her phone and sure enough, there was Ryan, coming toward her. Jenna felt her eyes widen, and a furious fog filled her brain.

She violently jumped up from her seat. Unaware of Jenna’s interior rage, Ryan smiled his sweet, handsome smile as he reached his hand out to shake hers. As he did, his tail suddenly swished forward, startling a fly that had landed on his shoulder. 

Jenna lost it.

“You know,” she snarled, and Ryan’s friendly smile froze. Jenna continued, “it’s not like I’m a specieist or anything, but you could have told me you’re a CENTAUR! Asshole.”

Jenna pushed past Ryan and his extended hand, slammed her smartphone into her bag and stomped out of the restaurant.

Suppose you have a boyfriend. You like this boyfriend. He’s attractive. He carries himself well and shows kindness to children, old people and animals. He makes you laugh so hard you can’t breathe. His brain is fast and broad and he offers thoughts on life in ways that you’ve not considered before. You share your humor and your ideas and the two of you compare notes, adjust your worldview and get up the next day and do it some more.

Jackpot, right?

But say this man is also petty and jealous and refuses to use his amazing brain for good and instead uses it to activate that irrational guilt that you carry (because of course, he spotted that right off). You see your friends less and less because he asks too many questions about what you did and where you went and even phone calls become stressful because you begin to monitor what you say. You notice that he puts a lot of energy into figuring out the best ways to be lazy and get you to do everything for the both of you … because you’re a couple now and couples do things for each other. But of course, you don’t see any of this b.s. until after you’ve moved in together.

Oops.

Say, further, that after some time, more time than you want to admit to, you tire of the subtle emotional manipulations that leave you feeling accountable for everything that happens to the both of you because you let his procrastination rule and life begins to fall apart. You scramble to apologize for each silly offense as he decries his culpability and follow up with, “can you pay for dinner tonight/power this month/the cell bill? I don’t get paid until next Tuesday.”

A stronger woman would ditch him, of course, but you’re not her. You’re the woman who carries a bizarre sense of responsibility to ameliorate his haplessness, his inability (unwillingness) to care for himself. You begin to feel like his mother and the sex, which had been pretty good, begins to wane because … ew. And then you’re wondering what’s left, but you can't bear to hurt him, even as you fantasize getting out.

So, what do you do when you’re too cowardly to break up with this man? Why, you go to the other side of the country to care for your ailing parent and wait for him to get bored without the company of a woman so that he goes in search of a new one. Except that he won’t go looking because he’s not a proactive kind of guy, and you want to be done with him without being the bad guy, so you decide to give him a push.

Shannon.

When he calls and tells you he misses you and your Sunday burgers together, you suggest he go anyway. He enjoys talking with Shannon, your regular server, right? “Go, honey, just go …,” and he does.

And then he goes again the following Sunday, and the one after that and soon he’s telling you all kinds of things about Shannon, and then her dog, and then how she knows a great hike he’s always wanted to take. 

You tell him to “go! enjoy yourself, honey. Your life doesn’t need to stop because I have to be 3,300 miles away.” Of course, your presence on the far coast isn’t really necessary at this point, but it seems useful, and your parent is happy enough to have you hanging around.

One night, you find out Shannon had been invited over to sit on your couch and watch your tv with your boyfriend and you are relieved and you smile.

My step-mom died suddenly.

I totally wasn’t expecting it, I mean, shit, summer was just starting and I’d lived through that whole awful, shitty Oregon winter where it did nothing but rain and snow and freeze and fucking piss me off with every day darker and colder than the one before it.

In April, in the midst of yet another deluge, as I watched my yard flood deeper and deeper, and my grass look sad because it was too cold and dark out for it to take advantage of the spring rains and grow, I called Frannie at her place in sunny Florida and I was all, like, “Hey, Frannie, ’sup? How’s the dying going?” and she was all like, “Oh, it’s good. I start a new treatment in August that will most likely kill me. I got a bunch of gluten-free chocolate-covered pretzels on sale at Publix – I love those pretzels! - and the Warriors had a great season – that Steph Curry, he’s so cuuute - and that Muslim is out of office finally, so yeah, I’m good.” “That’s cool,” I replied, ignoring everything she said because I don’t do politics, really, really not my thing. Neither is basketball, but this is the shit people have to deal with when they have parents and people that they love.

“So,” I continued as I stood at my front window and watched the newly formed twin rivers rush over the full drains and along the gutters in the street, “you want some company while you slip into the next life?”

Disappointingly, she said, no doubt staring at the bright sun and the colorful flowers from her own window, “Nah, I’m all good here. You know how I like my privacy,” and then she launched into some political thing that I didn’t understand that then segued into ramblings about the drugs she was on and the chemo and the August trial she was participating in at the uni that might save her life which we both knew wouldn’t because she was definitely terminal and besides, she missed my dad and she’d been excited about dying since, like, the day I met her over forty years ago and in truth, she was pretty fucking stoked about kicking off.

So I got off the phone, and I sighed at the rain and hated my life and wondered what the fuck I was doing and how was I going to just get the hell out of the misery I’d created for myself and then sat down to binge-watch “Orange is the New Black” since I hadn’t seen it since its first season and it was so stupid-gross outside even the native Oregonians weren’t going out.

Eventually, the rain stopped and the sun came out. We all thought it would turn scorching hot because hell, after a never-ending shit-ass winter like that, a ridiculously hot summer was sure to follow, but it didn’t. It hit 80 and then just sort of hung out there. There were a few foggy mornings and a few 85-90 degree days, but from the end of June on, it was just one gorgeous day after another and I settled back into a reasonable life.

I got a great schedule at work, the boyfriend and I started making plans to get some projects done; a pregnant stray adopted us and after my initial wtf? because it makes me bat-shit crazy that people let their animals get preggers when the shelters are full and millions of animals die daily, I was pretty stoked about the kittens because baby anything is pretty fucking adorable. And then there was the fair and the Scandi-fest was coming up – corn dogs! and the river was pretty and the sun was bright and our gardens were growing and then Frannie called and was all like, “So, yeah, when are you coming to stay?”

And I’m all, like, to myself, August in Florida? Fucking-A. Goddammit … life just emerged and now I have to leave it and go sweat and be disgusting among mosquitoes and force-watch Fox News 24/7 until football starts while Frannie talks about “that Muslim” because she loves that narrative and just can’t give it up and … fuck.

Plus, did I mention I had about $80 to my name and not much coming in because my stupid-expensive master’s degree nets me a salary that pays less than minimum wage even though I work in my field and I had no idea how I was going to live while I was down there because Frannie expected me to rent a place … seriously … she loves her privacy that much, and okay, so do I, so I got it, but still … how the fuck was I going to make this work and within two weeks?

But I started to plan, and I talked to my sister who ponied up miles, happy she wasn’t the one who had to go, and to my boss who unhappily let me use my sick leave and take advantage of the FMLA while I telecommuted, and I called my credit card who loves me even though my credit still sucks from grad school and they gave me more credit so I could buy fucking food while I’m there, not that I couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds, and I reconciled myself to missing the birth of the kittens and my bed and the sunshine and beautiful 80 days that I totally felt I’d earned after that depressing, cold, dark, snowy fuck-me-hard winter and I began packing and arguing with the boyfriend about whether he should drive me or I should take a shuttle to Portland because my sister doesn’t get how far away Portland is and thinks our airport is podunk, and she’s not wrong, but we DO have good flights out of it but the ticket was bought and so fine, I’ll spend a hunk of my meager bucks on the fucking shuttle and my mom was fussing at me, “Why do YOU have to go, why not your sister?” and I really, really wanted to say “Because you and Daddy set it up that I’m the eldest and it – along with everyfuckingthing else in life - is my responsibility and you can’t yank that shit away from me now,” but didn’t because it would hurt her feelings and in the end, I’m a decent daughter and then … Frannie died.

I still had to go … executor and all that … but, yeah.