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Medusa pushes the sunglasses up high on her nose and pats at the scarf tied round her head. Everything is in place, her pantsuit pressed and pleated, her pumps shined and the same shade of black as her lipstick and nails. Satisfied, she steps out from the rental, tucks two quarters in the meter, and strolls into the café.
She’s the first one there, which is no surprise. Psyche is perpetually running late, and Persephone is still getting used to time above ground. She orders their coffees—hazelnut with extra cream and sugar for Persephone, caramel-mocha latte with whipped cream for Psyche—and an earl grey for herself. The barista is a young boy struggling with the register, undoubtedly new. She knows that her lenses will act as a barrier, but still avoids his eyes out of habit. Better safe than sorry, after all.
She carries the drinks to a table at the front of the room, pressed up to the wide bay window, with three metal chairs spray painted gold. She picks at a cinnamon raisin bagel, mostly just eating the raisins, and waits.
They don’t keep her waiting long—they almost never do, though she knows the only reason they’re here so early is because Persephone takes pains to at least try being punctual. Psyche crashes into the store like she does everything, like a gust of wind, like she has too much to do and not enough time to do it all. Persephone is the careful one, the graceful one, the perpetual girl-almost-woman, always at the cusp. They turn towards her table mid-chatter, smiling and out of breath and falling into their seats with a sigh.
Psyche drinks her latte in a single gulp, wiping whipped cream from her upper lip and already ordering a new one. She buys two chocolate-filled croissants and a chocolate pecan brownie. Persephone sips at her drink and eats her blueberry scone with equal, measured bites. She finishes Medusa’s mauled bagel, slathering it with honey packets and the little boxes of blackberry jam from the counter.
Psyche chatters on about her most recent obsession—a new love for restoring houses. Her husband helps when he can, but spends most of his days traveling for business. Medusa and Persephone know their friend only falls into so many hobbies to stay busy while Eros is away. Persephone listens dutifully, but Medusa had heard all about the project on their girls’ night out the week before, and she lets her mind wander.
Eventually Psyche begs for stories of the underworld, it having been so long since she’s last been. Persephone obliges as she always does, though it’s clear she doesn’t mind. While she could never be accused of being vain or self-indulgent, there is a certain pleasure from talking of oneself.
They listen as she describes the celebrations held in her honor, lasting well over five months but in the span of a single, perfect night. She describes the halls, lit by a hundred thousand torches, and starlight drifting in from the skylights Hades had installed after she’d mentioned missing the night sky. She describes the thistle and foxglove and pomegranate wine, the pear cakes glistening with peppermint frosting and forget-me-not petals. She describes the snowflakes that flew through the air as everyone danced and reveled. The tables lined with passion fruits and tangerines and persimmons and chestnuts and sweet potatoes and pomegranate seeds, although those were mostly as a joke.
Not everyone at those parties was dead—old friends and acquaintances often made an appearance, out of respect or curiosity. Persephone had invited both Psyche and Medusa that past winter, but Psyche had spent all her time wrapped up in old architecture and her husband, and Medusa had been traveling the Caribbean on a cruise.
“Yes, how was that?”Persephone asks, finishing off the last bit of scone. “Did you meet anyone on your trip?”
Psyche rolls her eyes dramatically, already knowing the answer, and hops up for a third refill. Medusa shrugs. She loves her friends, more than anything, but with them it always comes down to romance, and whether or not Medusa had any.
She supposes it only made sense—for both of them, their marriages have been the single most important events in their lives. Love defines their existence. And so they just assume it’s the same for everyone, the same for her. But it isn’t, and she’d spent years trying to explain that until she’d finally just given up.
“No,” she answers honestly. “But the countries were beautiful, and the weather was nice. I needed the sun.”
Persephone nods; she’d learned long ago not to press Medusa in matters of the heart. Psyche, hurricane that she is, had never been so tactful. She spins her way back over, licking chocolate syrup from the corner of her mouth.
So are you a lesbian then? She’d asked months ago, just after Persephone had left in early autumn. Medusa had only stared—to be honest, she’d never really given it much thought. It’s fine if you are, Psyche had added, unnecessarily. Of course it was fine; Medusa knew that her friends wouldn’t care who she was attracted to; they just wanted her to be attracted to someone.
It’s not that, Medusa had said, patting at her periwinkle-blue wig—Psyche had picked it. She hadn’t finished the answer, and Psyche had (miraculously) let it drop. It wasn’t about gender—although admittedly, women would make everything so much simpler—but it had never been about that.
It’s hard to meet people when her hair is always hissing in her ears.
And that isn’t the only reason either, but it’s one of many, and each is weirder than the one before, until she’d finally decided her existence might be better spent finding what made her happy, rather than whom. Mostly, she’d found that sunlight and fresh fruit and salty air and American blues music all do the trick.
And she isn’t worried about dying alone. She has Psyche and Persephone and, somewhat strangely, she has Eros and Hades and Dionysus. She isn’t alone—and even if she was, she doesn’t really think her own company is all that bad.
Conversation quickly goes back to the others, and then they’re swapping marriage stories, little quips about their husbands that Medusa will likely never really get, but can laugh at all the same. Persephone is ranting, again, about the old-world feud between her mother and husband.
“Oh yeah,”Psyche sweeps her hair back understandingly, “Mothers-in-law are the worst.” She grins at Medusa. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with any.”
Medusa nods and sips at her tea, lukewarm by now, but she doesn’t mind.