Persephone

She now had everything she wanted. The houses, the cars, the kids, the clothes, the vacations, the husband, the friends of equal or higher social status.

But after the ever more demanding kids had gone to sleep, and she had walked away from the husband who was really married to the iPhone iMac NASDAQ, she would go into the bedroom, softly shut the door, sit at the vanity, open a jewelry box, and pull out the little black book that screamed to her all day from inside.

The book was 11 years old and contained just one phone number and a name: Persephone.

She would hold the book in her hands for a while and then open it to look at the number. Sometimes she would sigh, sometimes she would just stare.

Then the book would go back into the jewelry box and she would stand up, complete her evening routine, get into the bed, close her eyes, and think of the owner of the phone number.

Money and opportunities had been hard to come by as a member of an immigrant family. At near 22 she had decided that capitalizing on her youth and beauty by working as a waitress at a South Beach nightclub was a good idea. And maybe it was. There was fun to be had, plenty girls like her to be friends with, and enough money to get an apartment with a roommate and get the hell out of home. And for her, with little else to feel she could count on, that was plenty.

The first time he approached her he came on strong. She blew him off. Too old, too pushy, and it was too loud where they were and she was too busy trying to convince her customer to buy a larger bottle of champagne.

The second time he was standing outside the bathroom and he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly while admonishing her for not wanting to see him. She was shocked and aroused at his audacity. No man had been so demanding of her attention before.

Ok, he’s interesting. She decided to give him a chance. He was staying at a fancy hotel nearby and invited her for drinks.

It was quiet and just the two of them. He picked her up and wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing her. She had never felt so light before, so cared for and she was completely surprisingly naturally receptive to the way he took control. “Let me look into your eyes,” he said.

And what happened next was a rush of blood to the head.

When they were done they stared at each other for a while, their hearts taking in the human who had just welcomed them home after what felt like lifetimes of waiting and wanting and longing.

“You are really beautiful,” he said.

“So are you,” she replied.

Breakfast the next morning seemed like a good time to ask questions. When the Universe decided it was time for you to re-enter this particular planet, what city did it decide you should be born in? Have you experienced the joy of creating new life and ushering in new souls into this dimension? What is your earthly job?

“Moscow,” he said. “No. I am Miami’s little black book.”

She giggled. She didn’t know what that meant and it didn’t matter.

She felt him with her and around her and inside her all the time and was stronger, deeper, happier, and the beauty of life and the sanctity of marriage and the honor of having children with the man you love and creating a warm home and taking care of each other in the older years encompassed all her thoughts.

“I like everything about you, you know that right?” he whispered into her ear as their hearts united and she exited her body and knew all the answers to every question ever asked by humankind.

And then she said it. “I love you.”

He sighed. He was man who once had so much good in him but was exposed to too much too soon. He was a man who had come across opportunities in the land of the free and the home of the brave and had decided to exploit those opportunities for his own gain. He was a man who took one look at her and had felt inspired and hopeful and alive again.

There used to be a lot of good in him, and the memory of it lingered in his aura like a ghost that refused to be forgotten.

He made reservations for them at a posh restaurant. She immediately noticed the woman with him. The woman was heavily made up and wearing very provocative clothing. She looked familiar. When the woman saw her, she smiled. “Oh I’ve heard so much about you I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

He walked away.

“I know you have been seeing him for a while. As a friend, he is great but as a boyfriend, he sucks.”

Suspicion turned into contempt.

“How do you know each other?”

“We work together.”

“And what do you do?”

The woman took a sip of her drink. “I am a model.”

She isn’t a fucking model. She’s a fucking hooker. Girls like this come to the clubs with different men all the time.

He reappeared. “How are you beautiful ladies getting along?”

Oh my God.

She screamed internally and for some reason van Gogh’s painting came to her mind. At the time she thought it was an ugly mess but now it made sense. This is what it is like to live in the world, she thought. A blue and yellow and black fucking mess.

The model excused herself after two glasses of champagne and after dinner he walked her to her car and went back inside the restaurant.

Back to business.

And Mother Earth and Sister Sky crashed into one another, bounced off each other, and with apologetic faces crashed into each other again and again and again.

How do you fall in love with a stranger? And how do you reconcile a real person with who you thought they were, and are you who you thought you were when you were with them? Did any of it matter in his world?

He invited her over to his friend’s house for the first time. It was waterfront and impressive and modern and sparsely decorated, like a fancy doctor’s waiting room. Like an office. He walked her to a room that had two chairs and table covered in money.

“You lied to me.”

“I never lied to you.”

“You called yourself a black book!”

“And that is exactly what I am.”

“How was I supposed to realize that makes you a pimp!” she screamed.

He was quiet. “I’ve helped a lot of girls, and I can help you. If you are smart and I know you are, I can get you set up for life.”

“And then what about us?”

He pretended not to hear. Like when she said, “I love you.”

“I don’t want your fucking money. I never asked for anything but you.”

He sighed. “Have you ever held $20,000.00 cash?”

He handed her the stacks.

She looked at the money in her hands. Of course she hadn’t held $20,000.00 in cash, it hadn’t ever occurred to her to want to do such a thing. Of course money mattered and everyone cared about it and everyone wanted it which was the root of all evil.

Or was it? Was it really? It just looked like paper, lying there on the table, and she could possibly maybe if she listened to him set herself up for a life of ease. And then they could be together.

So now she had a choice: her pride intact and her ego embarrassed and her heart broken, or her pockets full of money and not knowing how she would feel about herself in a year or for the rest of her life, enjoying the company of the most enigmatic man she could ever imagine knowing.

There was no one to talk to about this. Who wouldn’t laugh and tell her she had imagined everything when she explained that she was in love with a man whose last name she couldn’t pronounce? That she hadn’t asked him simple get-to-know-you questions before losing herself completely to him?

She needed to find someone who believed in soul mates; maybe they could help.

Lincoln Road was much more bohemian back in those days, and there was a weird guy that everyone would curiously glance at but no one would talk to who claimed to read tarot cards and be psychic. His strange shirtless body and wrinkled brown face came vividly to her mind.

He was the one to approach.

He pulled some cards. “King of Pentacles. He’s worked hard, got all the material success. Is that what initially attracted you to him?”

“No. It was his daring. Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”

“Well, look at the card; look at how he’s looking at you. He desires you, deeply.”

“He’s made me a strange offer. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hierophant, reversed. You know, you should look into the story of Persephone. She fell in love with Hades and ruled the Underworld for half a year, and lived a regular life the other half.”

“So you are saying I should say yes? Isn’t it…wrong?”

“Sweetheart, what is wrong are the questions you are asking. We’ve all been getting it wrong this whole time. The people are angry, the Earth is angry. And I have another client waiting.”

She walked towards the ocean more confused than before. She cried until the tears and the ocean seemed to become one, feeling like she was being called upon to fulfill a duty that she was the wrong person for. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it.

For the next few weeks she cried until her heart and mind and body dried up and her skin shed and she emerged a new person with a new identity and a new life.

Father Time heals all wounds, and the Universe doesn’t stop expanding for anyone, not the least of all two soulmates who would have many more chances to get their shit together in future lifetimes.

She moved on, wised up, went to college and got a respectable job that led to meeting a new guy whose parents she met within the first few weeks and her feelings for him were not comparable, not in the slightest, but this was something real in that it was tangible and predictable and she wouldn’t be surprised or let down by anything this new guy did.

She bought a little black book and kept it in a jewelry box her vanity. When the ennui wouldn’t be stuffed down by cocktails or a new dress she would look at the book, and sometimes sigh and sometimes giggle and sometimes just stare, and she would examine her physical reality and end up begrudgingly satisfied with the choice that was made.

Maybe he couldn’t give her what she wanted, but he gave her what she needed to get through this life and the choice she had made, until their next lifetime.