Page 8 of Before They Were Lovers

The waitress returned with their drinks, and the sight of the sudsy brew in the frozen mug made his mouth water. There was nothing like a good tap beer after a long week.

“What’ll it be, fellas?”

After they ordered, God kept his eyes on the televisions, and Day sat back and enjoyed the unrefined energy of the bar.

He and God didn’t talk about anything personal. The conversation was limited to sports stats and shit-talking about guys at the station they didn’t like. And it stayed that way as they ate their dinner.

It wasn’t until they were on their second shot of whisky and third beer that Day confessed, “If I’d gone home right after the shift, I’d probably have made some quick pasta meal. I’m not bigon fast food or paying for overpriced takeout that usually ends up tasting like shit.” Day tossed some french fries in his mouth. “I always have a six-pack of imported in the fridge, and I have a pretty good jazz collection—Miles, Armstrong, Coltrane, I got some rare editions too. That’s usually how I end my nights.”

God hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t ask any follow-up questions as Day had hoped.

“You like jazz?”

“Nope.” God kept his eyes on the game.

“Rock?”

“Nope.”

“Country?”

“Nope.”

Day shook his head. “Bluegrass?”

God scowled. “No, Day.”

“What the fuck, God? Do you drive down the street pumping folktronica, electropop, avant-garde? I mean, what…?”

God lowered his gaze and stared.

“If you weren’t here, what would you be doing?”

“Sleeping,” God said, and that’s all he said.

Day rolled his eyes. “So that’s all you do…eat, sleep, shit, and fight crime?”

God shrugged. “Nailed it.”

Day was getting pissed. He didn’t want to trust his life to a complete stranger.

God cocked his head, those green eyes penetrating and judging.

“You know me, Day. I got no secrets. I have no life outside the one you’re already in.”

Day blinked. That almost sounded as if God was saying Day was his world.

I can’t be.

“What you’d do in the military?”

God’s expression hardened, giving him a glare that yelledoff-limits.

“Shit, man,” Day snarled. He might as well pay his tab and leave. He was butting his head against a brick-fucking-wall anyway. “If you didn’t wanna go out, then you should’ve just fuckin’ said so.”

God aggressively downed the last of his beer, then sat up higher in the booth and leaned toward Day as if he was about to tell him a huge secret, and Day was all ears.

“Idon’tlike small talk or bullshitting, Day. If you really wanna know what I do…nothing. I don’t do anything when I go home. I grab whatever takeout I feel like eating that night—whoever doesn’t have a long wait time—I eat, might do some push-ups, sit-ups, or free weights, shower, and then I go the fuck to sleep. I don’t cook, I don’t jam out, I don’t have hobbies. And I sure as fuck don’t hang out with people. If you want me to be clearer…I havenofriends.” God glared hard. “None.”

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