This is stupid. The golden feather spins as I twist it through my fingers. I should just throw it away. Chalk today up as a really screwed up fever dream. There’s no reason for me to keep a reminder, even if it catches light like a constellation or reflects sunlight like some kind of cosmic mirror.

  I run a finger over the outer edge of it, letting the little hairs tickle the palm of my hand. It’s so soft, like the down inside the duvet I had as a kid. This isn’t creepy, right? He’s a man-god thing with wings. He’s probably accidentally left behind lots of feathers and there’s probably been thousands of girls just like me who’ve spent an entire morning staring at them.

  My stomach turns sour at the thought.

  Yeah, this is stupid. I pop open the trash lid and… I throw it away. Almost. I can’t.

  The feather stays on my windowsill. A reminder to do my dishes before another celestial being shows up to call me a pig.

  I should plug my phone in, too, in case the sudden need to call emergency services pops up again in the near future. I left it in my—

  He took it. Oh god, did he steal my phone? My eyes scan the kitchen, the area by my purse. It’s gone. It’s gone and in the hands of some guy who can teleport and probably doesn’t even know how to work it. What if he goes through it? There’s so many pictures. So many.

  My hands clench into fists as my mind reels. What a fucking asshole. He washed, like, four dishes and stole my phone. How do I even get it back? How does one summon an ancient Greek god? I prayed for change, not a thief.

  Collapsing into the nearest dining chair, I bury my face in my hands. This is all so messed up. If I had to get a god in my kitchen, why couldn’t it have been someone cool like Athena or Zeus? Why the FedEx guy with pretty curls and a bad attitude?

  He has to come back, right? Like, he’s going to notice that he stole my phone and bring it back. What use does a god have for an old, refurbished Android? Unless this was his plan all along. Steal my phone and go through my pictures and broadcast them to the world as some kind of divine punishment for moving on to modern Christianity.

  I could pray again and hope he hears this one, too, but that feels a little too desperate. What’s the rule of thumb? Wait three days to call after a first date? What if it’s a forceful, completely unintentional confrontation that ended in me looking up Trojan history?

  I don’t know. I don’t know a lot, apparently, and this is all bullshit. I stand and slam the chair backward, my blood pumping loudly in my ears. My eyes lock with the dirty dishes. I’m gonna do the fucking dishes. Because how dare he insult my collection of filth? It could be a hobby that he’s too old to understand.

  And so, I do the dishes. No music, no distractions, just pure rage cleaning. I’m cleaning because this is what normal people do. Normal people don’t live like pigs or get visited by stupid ancient men, but I’m normal, goddammit. This is fine. I’m not even thinking about him. It’s all spoiled leftovers and grime for me.

  The dishes take less than an hour and I feel like an idiot for not doing them sooner. My kitchen is, for the first time in the entire almost year I’ve lived in this shitty apartment, clean. I had to throw out three bottles of left-out mayonnaise to get here, but it’s done. I should probably tackle the laundry next, but it’s almost seven and I have to be at work by eight, so there’s no chance.

  A quick shower leaves me feeling not refreshed at all, and I slide into a fresh pair of jeans and a button down. With my hair tied back into a neat bun, I’m ready to step back into hell.

  Work.

  The word feels like poison, slowly rotting my brain from the inside out. I’ve worked for the same company for over a year which is a pathetically huge accomplishment for me. During my college years, I jumped between jobs too quickly for my resume to keep up. Now, I’m stuck at a branch off of Panera Bread as one head among thousands in the accounting field.

  It doesn’t even pay very well, but it keeps me housed in a decent neighborhood with neighbors that aren’t actively trying to murder me, which is honestly pretty rare for St. Louis.

  My tiny little, old as dirt, car manages the drive there on a quarter tank of gas and pure adrenaline. The office is as boring as always, and muscle memory plants me at my cubicle with a cup of gross coffee in my hand.

  “Good morning, Alira!”

  Sophia. Barf.

  The peppy voice of my next-door cubicle neighbor sends a jolt of electricity through my head. The bad kind. Her face pops over the edge of the sad blue laminate wall. “Happy Friday! I brought donuts.”

  I force a smile and take a sip of the stale coffee. “Oh, awesome.” I set the mug down and power on my computer. Please leave.

  She doesn’t. Her hands grip the top of the not-privacy wall. “Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

  “Nope.” Unless she counts cleaning my whole apartment in hopes that a certain maybe-god doesn’t return. Shit, she’d think I’m a lunatic if I told her about that. Maybe I am a lunatic.

  “Well,” she pushes on, completely unaware of the contempt I hold for her, “as you know, it’s my birthday weekend. So, a bunch of us are going out for drinks after work. You’re totally welcome to tag along if you want. We’re going to DB’s out on Gravois.”

  Tag along. How exciting. I love pity invites. “I’ll see what I can do,” I say with as much pep as I can muster. “Happy birthday.”

  She pinches out a smile, her eyes crinkling way too much for it to be genuine, and disappears behind the wall. I didn’t realize how much I hated it here until exactly right now. The revelation does nothing for me, but it feels good to admit. Like an alcoholic admitting to the problem but refusing to change. Alira, the not recovering not alcoholic. Has a nice ring to it.

  I could totally enjoy drinks this evening, though. Maybe it’s ridiculous of me to be so dismissive. Sophia’s…nice? She sometimes compliments my hair. One time she said I didn’t look tired. It’s her birthday weekend. I could use an excuse to let loose. To take my mind off of—

  Not thinking about him. Hermes, the feather dropping, phone stealing… thing. Not thinking, not pondering, not letting him take up any mind space. I prayed for change, and all I got was a dirty sink and a missing phone. That’s on him, not me.

  So yeah. Drinks. Maybe. Probably. They’ll be on the “considered” list until I have time to stare at myself in the mirror and contemplate my existence. Until then, I just have to get through the rest of today.

  Glancing at the clock, I groan inwardly. It’s not even nine. It’s going to be a very long day.

  It is, in fact, a very long day. Four o’clock couldn’t come any slower, and by the time it does, I’m on my fourth cup of coffee that was lovingly revealed to be decaf once I was already halfway through my third helping. I got a fourth because I’ve never backed down from a challenge.

  My car barely makes it to the gas station with an awful mile-per-gallon track record, and the feeling of not having a phone just fuels my paranoia as I pump her full of gas. Not full. Not even close. Ten dollars and three cents worth. A little over a quarter gallon, just enough to get me to work and back to the gas station on Monday.

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  When I arrive back at my apartment, I half expect to see a pair of gold wings waiting in my kitchen. Yet, there’s nothing. Of course, there’s nothing. Maybe there never was. Maybe there never will be again. There very likely will not be. I mean, how often do gods just drop into the puny mortal world? Not often, I’m assuming. At least, not to people like me.

  People like me, who have at least twenty pounds of laundry to fold and even more to wash. I have an incredibly unfortunate tendency to buy new clothes instead of washing old ones. I don’t even have the money to support my bad habits, but I don’t eat that much so it balances itself out.

  On the bright side, I find a favorite shirt I haven’t seen in at least six months. It’s a band T from back when I used to go to concerts with my sister and dad. The design has all but faded completely, but it’s the thought that counts. I can almost smell the sweat and excitement in the fibers still.

  For going out, I opt for a dress that’s way too fancy for what my coworkers deserve, but it makes me feel decent-ish. It’s something I thrifted about three years ago and wore to some college banquet I didn’t care about. The colors are a perfectly boring blend of blue and black, with a zipper up the back that I nearly dislocate my shoulders to close.

  I keep my makeup simple, with some eyeliner that spirals into a way bigger wing than necessary when I can’t get the lines even. By the time I’m done, my eyes are red from too much wiping and all my freckles are hidden under a layer of slightly too pale foundation.

  My wavy hair is frizzy from too many years spent straightening it, so I keep it in the bun.

  I look fine. This is fine. Tonight will be fine. I want to go. It’ll be good to have some normalcy, considering my heartrate still hasn’t gone down after the divine confrontation this morning.

  Fuck! Not thinking about it.

  Turning away from the mirror, I smooth down the stupidly formal dress and open the bathroom door, and—

  Something smacks across my face, wrapping me in a warmth that smells like betrayal. An attack. I’ve been attacked.

  Pulling the offending cloth away from my face, I take up a fighting stance as my eyes readjust to the lighting. My stomach clenches, and my heart stops beating just long enough for me to notice.

  Golden wings and golden eyes and pretty golden curls stands at the entrance to my laundry room, one hand on his hip, his face looking completely fed up with whatever he’s decided is insufficient about me this evening.

  Please, please, please don’t be real.

  “Your clothes smell like dirt.”

  That’s definitely Hermes. Shit.

  “Why are you in my house again?” I ask, crossing my arms.

  That completely insufferable smirk deepens as he shrugs. “Bored.”

  Bending down to scoop the discarded shirt off the floor, my thoughts snap back into place. “You stole my phone!”

  His expression goes blank for a second, like he’s replaying something in his head, before he perks up once again. “Oh, I guess I did, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” I snap out. “Did you bring it back?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well…” My eyes narrow as I take in the hat on his head. It’s broad rimmed and more bronze than his sandals, but with the same two wings protruding from either side. So, so bad. “You have such a bad taste in clothing.”

  “These,” he starts, spinning in a little circle, “are the ceremonial garbs of the gods.”

  “Well, they’re offensive to my mortal eyes.” He huffs, and I let a petty smile drag across my lips, before being replaced with all the anger I’ve been trying to not think about all day. “Give me my phone back!”

  “I don’t have your phone.” He holds his hands up, palms out, as if that proves anything. His bedsheet tunic probably has pockets somewhere.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say with a frown. “And even if I did, all that makes you is a thief.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he mutters with a wink.

  My fists clench at my sides. To think, I had the audacity to waste a single thought on him. “Then you owe me a phone. I need one. Like, to live.”

  “Oh,” he says quickly, an eyebrow quirking upward. “Does it provide you with oxygen?”

  “What? No.” My eyes pinch shut. This is so dumb. This can’t be real.

  “Does it…feed you?”

  “No, dumbass. It gives me internet and a way to call for help if someone decides to mug me at the gas station.”

  “Ah,” he drags out, nodding his head. “So, it sounds like you’re being irrationally dramatic about something that you don’t really need to survive.”

  “Well, no I don’t need it to survive, I need it to—” My eyes are going to bust out of my head if my blood pressure climbs any higher. “Stop twisting this, it’s mine and you stole it.”

  He smiles like he just received some kind of award. “I did, and you’re not pleading a very strong case to get it back.”

  “I shouldn’t have to. You should just be a decent fucking human and give it back.”

  “Oh, but that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He digs at his nails as he steps forward. Lazy, imposing steps that feel vaguely like a threat. “I’m not a decent human, Alira. I am a god.”

  My stomach sinks down to my toes, and I take a step away from him. “I never told you my name.” Shit. Shit shit shit. I mistook him for some kind of stupid blonde jock. He’s going to hurt me, isn’t he? I instinctively reach for…nothing. There’s nothing. No broom, no phone, no lifeline. I could punch him. I could scream. I could...die?

  I’m alone in my apartment with a winged not-human in a world that won’t give a shit about whatever happens to me.

  As tears sting the backs of my eyes, he stops. His head tilts just a fraction, his eyes slipping out of cold amusement into something softer. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly, holding his hands out in front of him. Slowly, he reaches behind him, his tunic shifting, before pulling out a small, rectangular box. He sets it on the table beside him.

  The fear inside me ebbs away into anger. “My phone!” Without thinking, I reach out and snatch it off the table. “You’re a big fat liar.” Immediately, I thumb the power button, just for it to flash back with a low batter symbol. My eyes flick up to Hermes, who’s watching me with that same intense stillness. “What did you do to it?”

  He tongues the inside of his cheek as a lazy grin dances across his lips. “Absolutely nothing. However—” His wings twitch as his fingers tap against the table— “you have some very interesting…memories buried in there.”

  My eyes go wide. “I knew it! You went through it, didn’t you?” I hold the phone to my chest, as if I can pull the contents out of his head and back into myself.

  “Oh, only a little.” His eyes flash with something devious, and I squint back at him. “Enough.”

  “You’re lying.” A smile of my own pulls at the corners of my mouth. I can see the lie in the way his pupils expand, black drowning out the dancing gold.

  He flashes perfect, pretty, too-white teeth as his cheeks dimple. He just watches me for a moment, like he’s trying to come up with the words to say, then a whisper of a laugh pushes out of him. “Yeah,” he says finally, a little too breathless for someone who claims to be a god. “I’m lying.”

  My eyes don’t leave him as I slide my phone into my back pocket. “Do you do that a lot?”

  “More in a single day than most mortals tell in their entire lives.” Sighing, he pulls out the dining chair and slumps down. His feet prop up on the table and my lip curls.

  “Get your stupid sandals off my table.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Or what? You’ll sweep me to death?”

  “Or I’ll—” Sweep him to death. Shit. This is so dumb. “Listen, I’m late for something really unimportant, but I have to go before I convince myself not to.” Turning away from him, I pluck my purse up from the table and sling it over my shoulder.

  “Oh,” he drags out, pushing back to balance the chair on two legs, “don’t let me interrupt your evening’s festivities.” He waves a hand in my direction, shooing me out of my own home.

  I blink at him. “You can’t stay here.”

  “You wound me,” he says with a dramatic flair, holding a hand over his heart—if he even has one, that is. “I wouldn’t want to stay in your lair of filth, anyway.” He kicks his feet off the table and sits up.

  “Hey,” I blurt in an overly aggravated tone, “I spent a long-time cleaning today after you decided to wake me up at, like, five in the morning.”

  His hand appears on my shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

  Scoffing, I brush his fingers off me like dust off an old book. “For what? Insulting me or going through my laundry?”

  “For inspiring change.” His fingers dance around like he’s sprinkling sparkles between us. “I’d call that another prayer satisfied.”

  As he nods to himself, I roll my eyes. “I have to go.”

  “Right, right,” he says smugly as he holds his arms out around him. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.” The air around us tightens, and my lungs seize.

  He’s leaving.

  Good.

  I can go back to normal.

  But the thought of standing awkwardly with Sophia and coworkers, pretending to laugh at jokes I don’t understand, makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Normalcy isn’t just boring. It’s miserable.

  My heart races. Say something.

  “Wait!” punches out of me, my hand reaching out between us like that’ll stop whatever cosmic air portal he’s summoning.

  The air stills, my lungs resume normal breathing, and he raises an eyebrow. His lip twitches as he lowers his hands down to his sides. “What is it?”

  God, I don’t know. How do I tell someone I kind of hate them but kind of don’t want to have to be normal when normal fucking sucks? Swallowing, I capture my lip between my teeth. “Are you…done here, then?”

  His jaw ticks as he watches me, something unreadable behind his golden eyes. “Aren’t you?”

  Closing my eyes, I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the dodged question. Come on, Alira, have some balls. Stand up for your sanity for the first time ever. I clench my hands into fists and muster all the social strength I can muster. “Do gods drink wine?”

  Why did I say that? I don’t even think I want him here—he’s annoying. Insufferable. I just don’t want to sit around with a bunch of coworkers that I don’t like and talk about things I don’t care about. I don’t want to sit around with him…probably.

  His lips stretch into a wide smile as he tilts his head back to stare down his nose at me. “You have no idea. You’d love Dionysus.”