Ruth and her husband have been divorced for roughly five years. He hadn't been abusive or drunk or (as she'd assumed) having an affair - he had simply driven her into a slow, fuming rage for the two and a half years they were married, and continued to do so. The day she'd announced her decision to leave, he had smirked and said, "Fine. It was getting old anyway."

It is a subject that she hates discussing, and therefore one of Satan's favorites.

"Have you been shagged at all since you left Michael?" the devil asks, stretching out on the back of her chair.

"Oh, piss off," says Ruth, pushing her dark hair out of her face.

"That's a resounding no!" he laughs.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Ruth is not ordinarily so short with him, but for some reason Satan bothers her tonight. Perhaps it is the mention of her ex-husband, which never puts her in a cheerful mood, but tonight she feels especially intruded upon. She was sleeping well for the first time in weeks, and dreaming about being somewhere far away, on Galapagos, alone on the island with nice boys and turtles.

Then Satan had to show up.

"You know, snippiness can be the result of an inactive sex life."

"You need to find someone who cares."

"I'm just looking out for your well-being, my darling, just say the word and I could get you laid like that," the devil snaps two long fingers.

"I'll bet."

She tries to remember her dream... she was on white sand, surrounded by crystal blue water that gently breathed onto the shore. She was drinking something fruity and barely alcoholic, her lacquered toes sinking into the sand, a delicious breeze blowing...

"Dream on, mate," says Satan. "You're stuck in the city."

"Please don't say that."

The devil snickers with a hint of pity beneath his cruel tone.

"My poor girl," he says. "You really do need a good long schtupping."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Of course you are."

Slowly, Ruth sits up in bed, giving her dream up for lost. She suspects that her unkind companion had given her that dream as a subtle form of torture, knowing that she would eventually have to wake up. She really hates him sometimes.

Bringing her knees up to her chin, shielded by the sheets from the waist down, she runs her hands through her hair and looks at the clock. It's useless to tell him to leave her alone as he rarely does anything she says and seems only to get more pleasure out of seeing her miserable. He seemed to understand, damn him, that the last thing she wanted to talk about was her pathetic sex life.

"That's too bad, dear, because that's what we're talking about," says the devil. "So how was he under the sheets, your Michael?"

"I think you know that."

"Was he your first, then?"

"You know that too, you bitch."

"That doesn't mean I wouldn't like to hear you say it, oh feisty one."

"Too bad," says Ruth, and she flops back onto the bed and turns toward the wall. She opens her eyes to see Satan lying next to her on his back, grinning at the ceiling.

"Where has your spirit gone?"

"It fell asleep," says Ruth. "It's waiting for me."

After a moment, Ruth's curiosity gets the better of her.

"What's up with you tonight? You seem like you want to gloat about something."

"No...[per thou] the grin fades. "Actually, I'm a little depressed lately, I'd hoped pissing you off would help."

"What are you depressed about?" she asks, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Do you think I'm losing my touch?"

She blinks at him, trying to picture this neurotic hot chocolate fiend, lying next to her and tugging at the sleeve of his red silk pajama shirt, as the ruler of the underworld.

"Well I don't know, sir," she says. "I haven't been to Hell recently, so..."

"I know, I know," he says, waving his hand impatiently. "I mean, you know, when a job becomes routine? You've lost your passion, you've lost your edge..."

Her vision slides away from him and she thinks of her own job. It seemed like she was happy, typing and receiving the same numbers daily, but upon closer examination she realizes that she tends to take things for granted. Could she be taking it for granted that she's happy? One of Satan's words echoes in her mind: routine.

"...so you start just barely believing in what you do and then you wonder... I guess you wonder if you're still any good at it."

"I think every job has a point like that," says Ruth, trying to convince the both of them. "Maybe what you need to do is ring the changes a bit."

The devil sighs, not taking his eyes from the ceiling.

"I'm not sure how," he says.

"There's a judge..." she says, getting up from the bed and pinching her bottom lip, trying to remember. "In Ohio, I think... he does these creative punishments that suit the crimes. Like this man was arrested for harassing police and calling them pigs, so the judge had him stand outside the police station with this pig, an actual pig, and a sign that said, 'this is not a cop'."

The devil laughs and claps his hands, signaling his approval.

"Nice," he says.

"Maybe you could do something like that," says Ruth. "Get back to the old rules, punish the wrongdoers without killing them right away."

"Missy, you might be giving me a few ideas."

Copyright 2003, Kit Fox

(to be continued)
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