“Okay, what do you know about Saturn?” His serious tone reminds me of the cold Niyi I first met, and not the man who’d ask “how high” if I said “jump.”
It reminds me of the change in Cole’s demeanor the night he walked in with his wife.
This can’t be happening again.
“Lessons, maturity, longevity.” The list comes out automatic, devoid of my usual brightness.
“Amazing,” Niyi says, offering a wide smile that feels more like him, but garners no reaction from me. “So, we have powers. Everyone has differentcapabilities, and one of mine is time.” He pauses and rests his palms on the bottle. I’m unsure what he’s doing, but he has the same hardened concentration of kids who visit the hospital for constipation.
His breathing slows until I no longer see the soft lift of his chest. My medical training kicks in. His grip on the bottle is strong and unrelenting, despite my efforts to separate the two. I check his neck for a pulse and I feel it thudding, but it fades with each beat.
“Niyi, wake up!” I yell, rubbing his sternum. Nothing.
I lift his eyelids and examine his pupils with my phone’s flashlight. Unresponsive.
What the fuck is going on?
“Niyi!” I put my hand to his lips and feel soft exhalations. Good, he’s still breathing. He’s alive but unresponsive.
“I don’t have my car, but everything will be all right. I’m here, and I’ll be taking you to a hospital. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m taking you to a hospital,” I repeat. Instead of calling 911—insurance rarely ever covers it—I order an Uber.
Right before I confirm the destination, Niyi gasps.
I scream, “Thank God! What the fuck, Niyi? You scared the living daylights outta me. I thought you were—”
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says. “But I’ve aged up the wine.”
“What?” I say and swiftly cancel the Uber request.
“I can manipulate time in objects. Wine has been my favorite test subject. Try it and see if it tastes the same.” His voice comes out strained, and not in a good way.
Niyi hands me his glass after pouring a hearty amount. Part of me doesn’t want to taste it because what he’s saying is impossible, but another part is intrigued.
I take a sip, and instead of the basic red wine from earlier, it has an even richer flavor than my Tignanello. For extra measure, I take another sip of my almost empty glass and return to Niyi’s new pour. I repeat this series of motions like a wind-up doll with one setting. And just like the automaton, I return to the same conclusion, back to my starting point.
“It’s true,” I whisper in utter disbelief.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Niyi confirms.
“You’re gods?”
“Technically, yes.”
The truth only creates further questions. “So,Cupid’s Bownot using an algorithm is true?”
“For the matches Merc, and our other cousin Vee—Venus—set up, yes.”
Here I thought it was a marketing gimmick.
I play back Niyi’s words. He mentioned Mercury and Venus, but what about him? “Do you make matches too?” I ask, and he rubs his nape, as he does in awkward situations.
“As Saturn, I used an algorithm because up until literally yesterday, I didn’t have full control of my powers.”
“You just said…” I peter off, confused. First, he has powers, now he’s saying he doesn’t have powers.
“I was given the role, but unlike Merc and the rest of my family, I couldn’t get a handle on it. Probably because I hated it. I never wanted to be Saturn, except when I was a kid.”
“So, what changed? Why do you now have full control to go comatose aging wine?”
