A few nights ago my old boyfriend Stan called to say he wanted to meet up.
I hadn’t seen him in years.
We’d had a falling out over what you might call spiritual differences.
But that was a long time ago, so I agreed to dinner at a little place we used to enjoy in the old days. Dante’s.
He was already there when I showed up, looking sharp and hot as always, picking at a piece of meat—extra rare—on a plate in front of him.
“Hey,” I said.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Hey!”
I sat.
“Sorry about ordering,” he said sheepishly, “but I was starting to doubt you’d show, and I was famished. As you know, the Hungarian here is to die for.”
“That’s fine.”
I looked over the menu.
“If you’re not up for Hungarian, Korean perhaps?” he suggested.
“Thanks, but I try not to eat meat. Not that kind at least. Not anymore.”
I ordered salad.
“You look amazing,” I said.
“You too.”
It was a lie I wanted to believe. “So, how have you been?”
“Good. You?”
“Not bad. All things considered. Life’s been messy. You probably know I converted, right? I’m a Buddhist now.”
“I do.” He grinned. “Yet here I am. Maybe that should tell you something.” Before I could respond—”I kid, I kid,” he added, still grinning. “I’m sure it’s a fine belief system. Everyone’s all about subjectivity these days anyway.”
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Booming. More clients than we know what to do with.”
“That’s good.”
“We’re thinking about expanding.”
That surprised me. “Which?”
“No, no. A new one altogether. A tenth.”
“My God,” I said.
“Right?”
“Congratulations. Even if it does feel weird to say that as a Buddhist.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’re looking for someone. Someone with your kind of—shall we say—skill set and experience.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” I said.
“It’s an upper management position.”
“Still.”
“Not tempted?”
“Funny,” I said. “But no.”
“I know we didn’t work out, but I always had tremendous respect for how you carried yourself professionally. It would be a privilege to work with you again.”
“I can’t,” I said, genuinely flattered.
“Karma?”
“Something like that.”
“You know it’s not real,” he said. “Reincarnation also isn’t a thing.”
“I know.”
“And… still?”
“Yes.” I crunched on my salad to punctuate the thought, feeling like a defenseless rabbit.
“That’s a shame.” He looked me over—his dark eyes peering as if into my very soul. “But, you know, in some fucked up way I’m actually proud of you. You turned your life around. Yes, you turned it around from the right direction to the wrong, and now you’re under the sway of some eastern metaphysical bullshit, but not many people can truly change.”
We chatted for a few minutes more.
Then, “I’ll be seeing you,” I said; and, rising, Satan responded with a hint of melancholy: “I always thought so too.
“Now I’m not so sure.”