Page 17 of Perfectly Matching Again

The hurt was sharp this time around, much worse than the knee to her crotch, and Erato allowed it to wash over her, to remind her why even the idea of enjoying an Olympian’s company was decidedly foolish.

She opened her laptop silently and watched the screen come to life. Next to her, Demeter sat very, very still. When she spoke, her voice was low and full of contrition.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Erato huffed out a breath.

“Hades thinks I am something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Hera considers me expendable and you’ve inferred I’m either promiscuous or stupid seven different ways in a matter of a few days. That’s okay though, since I am just a muse.”

She had no idea why she was saying half the things she was. Those were simply truths, truths that had been such for years, decades, centuries?—

“You believe it. You act like it. And ultimately everyone around you does the same.” Demeter set the paperwork aside and gave Erato her full attention. “But I am sorry. You may be many things, and Fates know you are. Some of them are your actual job, but dim isn’t one of them. Aphrodite has kept you around all this time, not just because you once dated. I kind of wish I had a wing muse myself. Do you know if Clio is available these days?”

Erato turned to her so quickly her neck cracked. The Muse of History? What the…

“Clio? Busy. Unmitigatingly, irrevocably, permanently busy. Occupied. All the history that’s being made daily. All the unprecedented times, blah blah, she’s constantly coming up with new ways to remind people that we have been through most of this shit and maybe it’s time they learn something from her, the Muse of History.”

Demeter’s smile was sly, clearly failing at hiding her pleasure at getting a rise out of Erato.

“I see,” she looked at her nails, all nonchalance, “Perhaps I need to look around for muses closer to me.”

Erato reached out her hand and covered Demeter’s.

“Perhaps you do.”

For the rest of the flight to Washington, DC, they left their respective work unattended to. The silence was sweet and in that sweetness Erato breathed deeply the scent of the Goddess next to her, trying to memorize the high and low notes of the flowery perfume, tears stinging the back of her eyes. Demeter was so out of her league, they might as well not even be playing the same sport.

“Remindme why are we here again?”

Erato looked around at the thousands of people crammed into the rather bare banks of the Tidal Basin. Jefferson’s Memorial stood to her side, the man himself, now a statue, probably wanting to rip himself off whatever was holding him in place and walk away. In the distance Lincoln stared—surely with disdain, if she was to judge his expression—at the masses in front of him. All around them people murmured, cheered, jeered and did what crowds did best. Created chaos.

In the chaos, Demeter in a pair of tiny running shorts and pink sneakers bent over to stretch.

“Forget I asked. I really am not at all interested in why we are here, just grateful that we are. Hallelujah, praise baby Jesus or whatever I am supposed to say in this country before a sporting event?” Erato turned towards Demeter fully and whistled. She was largely ignored by the Goddess of Harvest and cheered onby the two pretty lesbians stretching next to them. Erato winked at them. Demeter was leaning downwards and touching her toes and the world—despite its bleakness due to the bareness of the cherry branches—was a bright and beautiful place.

Breathing hard, Demeter finally lifted her head and scowled at Erato’s leering.

“We are here, Muse, because this is where the Cherry Blossom Festival takes place every year. It’s more than just the blossoms, obviously. Hence, most of the activities are still going ahead. The 10k run, the Pink Reception etcetera, etcetera. I tend to make an appearance every so often, as it’s a celebration I actually enjoy. The cherry trees are gorgeous when in bloom, the people are suddenly kinder, gentler, perhaps inspired by the tenderness of the blossoms…”

Erato crossed her arms at her chest.

“So why not have them bloom?” She watched carefully as annoyance flittered over Demeter’s face.

“When I’m good and ready. And speaking of ready, are you?” As soon as she spoke, some dude fired a starter gun, made all the louder by the wretched microphone that amplified it, and the barbaric horde of thousands of people began running all around Erato.

She tried standing her ground, because no, absolutely not, Erato did not run. She was too gorgeous to run. Devastatingly so. And running implied sweating and there were only one or two distinct circumstances under which—or on top of which—Erato sweated. Still, with Demeter taking off in a slow trot, clearly giving her time to catch up, the thread around her wrist tightened, and she was propelled forward, almost losing her footing in the blasted crowd.

The first mile flew by. Erato did her best to keep up, as Demeter set their pace. The second mile was challenging, particularly because she kept falling behind. Not that she wasgetting tired, but Demeter in running shorts gave her somewhat of an incentive to do so.

Mainly, the butt. It was glorious. And Erato was but a feeble sinner of a muse who damn near sprained her wrist trying and failing to run, not get dragged and still marvel at the godly creation that was Demeter’s behind in what was surely the greatest human invention since strap-ons. Glory, glory to running shorts.

By mile three, Demeter started to tire and Erato’s view of the glorious behind was no longer possible without her falling back on purpose and she didn’t think she’d get away with it. Moreover, all sorts of people who had no business being ahead of them were doing just that and when a particularly lecherous dude with a weird hairdo and a ridiculous blue suit sprinted past, all the while ogling Demeter, Erato’s competitive spirit took over.

It was Demeter’s turn to be dragged after the sprinting Erato.

“Are you suddenly determined to win the damn race, Muse?”

“No, but that guy over there full on drooled over you.”

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