Courtin' the Devil's Daughter
Chapter 1

I had never intended to fall in love with the Devil's Daughter. I mean, she is sweet, and beautiful, intelligent and kind- in short, nothing at all like her Daddy, but there is all that baggage. Not to mention that despite being the black sheep of her particular family (which is a good thing, I know!) she still has Demon Blood, and knows all those curses and has all those withering powers. But I didn't know all that, when I fell for her, and the heart is blind to exteranious details, when it is filled with love and lust. Marylin Munster might be a beautiful blond, but as her beau's found out, she was still a Munster. And Eliza was still at least half demon, had she been raised at the Vatican by the Pope's hairdresser. Which wasn't too far from the truth. It pleased her Daddy to ignore her, trusting that blood would out, eventualy- and in a way He was right- but He didn't take into account that half her blood would also out, and her mother was as near to a saint and angel as could be found this side of heaven. And it isn't like she had horns and a pointed tail, Eliza was born looking quite angelic herself- it stands to reason, as her Daddy was from that Heavenly stock, way back.

So, she wasn't treated like the offshoot of the personification of Evil on earth, which helped in the forming of her personality. I am not saying she was perfect, although it seemed that way to me, blinded by love's rosey veil. Eliza had a fierce Temper, which I have been on the recieving end of a time or two- mostly when she didn't think I was living up to my potential, and was making less than good choices. In a way, it was the active part of caring about me. Passivity was not one of her strong suites. No, my Eliza, my beautiful fiery Eliza, she is fiercely loving, a breathless whirlwind of activity, always involved in this or that Project, and I certainly have no idea what she saw in me. At the time, I was a wasterel, a college drop-out, ekeing out a living washing dishes at an upscale restaurant, you know, one of those ones they put in the top floor or near enough of a high rise office building? It was called 'The View' or 'Tip Top Club' or Top O' The World' or 'Flannagan's' or some such. It was a standard kind of restraunt, and the only thing that tipped it over into the four star catagory was the location, the view of the City- otherwise it could have rated three and a half on a good day. Don 't get me wrong, we all dressed up nice, and acted polite, and the cooks served up good grub- but it was pretty generic for all of that. And it was all as it should be, a place where folks of small imagination could spend extra money for alright food, and not be distracted from their business or pleasure by cullinary delight. It was all carefuly orchistrated, the lighting, the almost subliminal music, more of a gentle pressure than a sound, I had to be careful handling the plates to avoid any distracting rattles and sounds, although it wasn't as efficient- still, the unobtrusiveness of the dirty details of eating were better observed in their absence. The only reason I was out on the serving floor that day, was because two bus-boys called in sick, they had been partying at the same party, and fell victim to the same spiked drink bowl- They told me later that it was a bowl of lime sherbert and seven-up, which some wiseacre with more asshole than brain had poured a fifth of everclear into, in addition to the standard vodka. They were lucky they woke up in time to call in sick, and the manager had to listen to the background noise of rainbow chumming as the one who wasn't currently fertilizing the flowerbed spoke with him. They were roommates. So, my lucky day, I got to put on a black apron, and practice being unobstrusive, and let the dishes build up for after things had quieted down, with the exception of a few loads of forks and desert plates. I didn't mind, and I was actualy good at it, although I was just a tad to large to be completely inconspicuous- most of the bus boys are called boys because they were several feet shorter than I, not because of their age. My flawed invisibility got me noticed with a request for a refill on water at one table, and I honestly can not tell you who else was sitting at that table, because my eyes were unable to leave the form of Eliza. I know it couldn't have been more than three, or possibly four seconds that our souls exchanged phone numbers, because noone else noticed anything, but it felt as long as my entire life up to that point, and I knew that I couldn't live the rest of my life without her. I took one additional second to glance at her ring finger, then back up to her face in shock and relief, as I first noticed the plain gold band on her finger, and then as I took in what she was actualy wearing, and the wry little twist of her delectible lips- I was one confused boy. The love of my life was a Nun! I got the pitcher of water, and went around filling the glasses of all the priests and other nuns sitting around the table- and got an instant boner when Eliza firmly and unobtrusively pressed her breast against my thigh as I filled her glass! Thank God for those black aprons! I had a lot to think about, as I went back to trying to be unnoticeable as I cleared tables and the few tips (most were put on the credit cards) without anything more than a muted clack and clink.

When I returned to their table later to clear it, in the middle of her plate was an otherwise pristine napkin with a perfect outline of her lips in lipstick- (nuns wear lipstick? my reality was becoming more fragmentary by the second-) and inside was written her phone number, or a phone number anyway, and the words "Please Call Me, very important!". Not that I am untrusting- ... Well, actualy, I am. But, I did a reverse lookup for her, or that number, and it was listed as belonging to Eliza McKaan, and the address was that of one of the Sisterhoods. It appeared that she was already married- Christ! I reviewed the lifetime that our souls had exchanged through our mutual gaze, and decided she was worth going to Hell for. When I got off shift, after three hours of overtime finishing up the dishes that had piled up, it was quite late- but before my nerves failed me, I dialed the number on the lip imprinted napkin.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Heterosexual / Fiction /