Free Fated by S G Browne

and the way she laughs out loud at movies when she’s alone in her apartment. I’m thinking about the way I lose track of time watching her and how I feel excited when I’m around her and why I can’t get up the nerve to talk to her.
    Here I am, an immortal entity, existing since the dawn of man, and I’m afraid to talk to one harmless human female.
    My parents would be so proud.
    Though, technically, I don’t really have parents. I suppose Necessity could be considered my mother, but that’s stretching it. Jerry’s the closest thing I have to a father, and I can’t tell you how much that embarrasses me.
    I did have three stepsisters for a while—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, who were born during the heyday of Greek culture and mythology. They never cared for me. Considered me old-school, washed up, a relic of the Stone Age. Thought they were the next big thing, what with their trendy white robes and their “thread of life” image. They even went so far as to compose a collection of hymns.
    Meet the Moirae .
    It included songs like “I Cut Your Thread,” “Your Fate Is Mine,” and the holiday classic, “You Won’t Be Home for Hanukkah.”
    Didn’t sell very well. Humans back then just weren’t interested in shelling out their hard-earned drachmas for a self-absorbed musical composition created by a trio of cold, remorseless harpies.
    And when the Golden Age of Greece came to an end fifteen hundred years ago, those three little shrews found out that banking your future on a doomed mythology is a bad career move.
    Think Ramses ignoring the warnings of Moses.
    Think Custer’s Battle at Little Bighorn.
    Think Gigli .
    But then, I’m not exactly qualified to critique vocational choices. I’ve fallen in love with a mortal woman who’s on the Path of Destiny, which is a good way to get yourself reassigned to something like Disease or Incest.
    Not where I see myself in a thousand years.
    Problem is, I’m too smitten with Sara to just forget about her. I considered moving to another apartment building so I wouldn’t have the temptation so close at hand, but I’ve grown fond of the rooftop garden. Reminds me of Eden. Which doesn’t really help with the whole temptation scenario.
    But even if I moved to Brooklyn or Queens or Long Island, I’d still know where Sara lived and where she worked and when she’d most likely be taking a steam bath at her health club. Besides, I hate packing. And having to set up DSL again is such a hassle. So I crossed “moving” off my list.
    I could see if Memory would do her thing on me, wipe Sara from my data banks. But Memory can be kind of selective sometimes and really screw things up. The last thing I want is to end up wandering around for the next few hundred years trying to figure out where I left my keys.
    So I’m stuck with my Upper East Side apartment and my feelings for Sara and the general realization that I have no idea what I should do.
    At times like this, I like to meditate. And nothing beats invisible nude sunbathing in my rooftop garden for relaxing the mind and finding some clarity.
    My eyes are closed, my body simmering in a Coppertone glaze, the warm sun slowly cooking my brand-new man suit to a nice, even bronze.
    When I got back from Amsterdam, I had Ingenuity repair the stitches from my stab wound, buying his silence with a quarter ounce of the White Widow I brought back from one of the hash bars. Ingenuity does his best work on mind-altering substances. So when he mentioned that my man suit looked a little dated and showed me the latest model, I threw in three grams of magic mushrooms for an updated version that reflects the current perception of the perfect male body: sculpted chest, toned arms and legs, six-pack abs, and unblemished, hairless flesh. I also upgraded the most masculine part of my anatomy.
    Although I can’t prove it, I’d swear Vanity had a hand in my decision making.
    Naturally, my outer physical appearance had to remain the