End of the Workweek

Friday's workday finally came to an end. Three days since the bus ride. Three days since falling asleep beneath flickering advertisements and waking into a life no longer entirely his own. The past few days had stretched longer than any before them, measured not in hours or shifts but in losses. Cotton to lace. Flat soles to heels. Certainty to doubt.

Still, the workweek was over.

Craig stepped through the apartment door with grocery bags cutting into his fingers and the dull, familiar ache pulsing through his legs. The scent of cardboard and machine oil still clung faintly to him, carried home from the warehouse despite the hours that had passed since clocking out.

The bags were set carefully on the kitchen counter.

Fruit shifted inside the thin plastic. Red napkins peeked through. A bundle of roses lay wrapped in crinkling cellophane, petals dark and velvety beneath the fluorescent light.

It had taken longer than expected to gather everything. The internet had offered no single instruction, only fragments. Symbols. Suggestions. Offerings tied to fertility, love, devotion. Apples. Strawberries. Cherries. Flowers. Candlelight.

If Eros wanted reverence, reverence would be given. Whatever it would take to get in front of the god and plead his case.

His bedroom would be the temple. His dresser the shrine.

The top of the dresser had been cleared before leaving that morning, its surface wiped clean in anticipation. Now the red napkins were unfolded and spread flat, their colour vivid against the dark wood. A ceramic bowl followed, filled with the fruit. Apples rested at the bottom, strawberries and cherries spilling over them in careless abundance.

The roses were unwrapped and laid gently in front of the bowl, stems aligned without precision. Last came the tea light candle, small and fragile in its thin metal cup, placed at the centre of it all.

Matches rested beside it.

Craig stepped back.

There.

It wasn't grand. It wasn't ancient marble or carved stone. Just fruit and flowers and wax arranged on a bedroom dresser in a small apartment. But it was something. The internet had been clear about one thing: intention mattered more than perfection.

The candle would be lit before bed. Focus, he had read, was important while lighting it. It was what turned it from an empty practice to a prayer.

Maybe the god would answer. Maybe Craig would dream again.

Colour drew his attention toward the corner of the room.

The wedge sneakers sat beside the chair, abandoned the moment he'd stepped through the door. White and pink, innocent in appearance despite the suffering they had delivered. His feet flexed instinctively at the sight of them, phantom pressure returning at the memory. Wearing his sneakers to work had been bad, but having to return home in them after a day in the stiletto-heeled work boots had been ****.

Relief had come only after peeling them off and letting them fall to the floor. Now bare, his feet pressed gratefully into the cool hardwood.

But the pain lingered anyway.

Not just the sharp soreness in the arches, but the deeper aches threading upward through ankles and calves, settling into knees unused to bearing weight at such unnatural angles. Every muscle felt shortened, tightened, **** into cooperation with geometry it had never agreed to.

It reminded him, in a way, of his first week at the warehouse, years ago. Steel-toed boots worn stiff and unforgiving, blisters forming before calluses had the chance to grow. Evenings spent sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing them slowly, rubbing life back into throbbing feet while television murmured in the background.

That had been discomfort, but this was something else.

This was structural.

Knowing how Eros had punished him when he'd tried to buy men's underwear, Craig knew that there would be no escape from wearing heels. He had no idea how long it would take to get used to them, if he ever would, but the pain he felt that afternoon told him that painkillers and foot rubs were all he had to look forward to. Adaptation would not come easily.

He left the bedroom, bare feet throbbing but silent against the floor, and moved toward the kitchen. It was, after all, Craig's turn to cook.

Cupboards opened. Closed. Opened again. A quick exploration to discover what they had, and what he would make.

Tacos emerged as the easiest answer. Ground beef thawed quickly in a pan, breaking apart beneath the wooden spoon as heat coaxed it from pink to brown. The sharp scent of seasoning followed, cumin and chili powder blooming in the warm air. Lettuce was chopped. Tomatoes diced. Cheese grated into a loose pile.

Normal motions. Normal tasks. Aching legs.

Cold beer waited in the fridge. One was opened without ceremony, the soft hiss of escaping pressure marking the beginning of the weekend more effectively than any calendar ever could. That was exactly what he needed: to relax. To have an evening to forget about his magical woes, kick back, and let his body recover.

Bowling, the night before, had been great, but things had escalated since then.

The first swallow tasted like permission to let go.

The apartment door opened behind him not long after. Frank's footsteps carried in, followed by the familiar rustle of keys dropped into the ceramic dish by the entrance.

"Smells good in here."

Craig glanced over his shoulder. Frank stood in the doorway, tie already loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Fatigue lingered in the lines of his posture, but relief had softened it.

"Figured tacos," Craig said.

Frank nodded approvingly. "End of the week deserves something decent."

He moved to the fridge, retrieved his own beer, and twisted the cap free.

They drank in easy silence for a moment.

"TGIF," Frank said finally, lifting the bottle slightly. "We made it."

Craig smiled faintly. "Yeah. We did."

Frank leaned against the counter. "Any plans this weekend?"

Craig shook his head. "Nothing specific."

That wasn't entirely true. There was the shrine now. The candle. The hope of intervention. But those plans existed outside the realm of ordinary conversation.

Frank brightened slightly. "I've got a voucher for the movies tomorrow night. Two tickets. Friend couldn't make it. You want to come?"

The offer landed with unexpected warmth.

"Yeah," Craig said. "That sounds good. Got a movie in mind?"

"Nah, we can decide tomorrow."

Dinner came together quickly after that. Tortillas warmed. Meat portioned. Plates filled and carried to the small table by the window. Conversation flowed easily as they ate, carried by habit more than effort.

"Something weird happened today."

Frank looked up. "Weird how?"

Craig hesitated, unsure how to frame it without sounding ungrateful or paranoid.

"The operations manager came down. This guy I've never talked to in my life. Daniel Mercer."

Frank's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ops manager? That's not a casual visit."

"He comes right up to me, ignores everyone else," Craig said. "Said there might be an opening upstairs. Office work. Asked if I'd be interested. Super weird. I don't even know how he knew my name."

The reaction was immediate.

Frank shot to his feet. "Are you serious?"

Before Craig could answer, the fridge door was already open.

Another beer appeared in Frank's hand, pressed into Craig's fingers with urgency.

"That's huge."

The bottle was lifted insistently. Craig couldn't help but laugh faintly at the sudden intensity. They clinked the glass together.

"To moving up," Frank said.

Craig echoed it automatically. "To moving up."

The beer tasted colder this time. Frank didn't sit back down.

"We have to celebrate."

Craig blinked. "We are celebrating."

"No," Frank said, already reaching for his jacket. "We are celebrating properly."

A grin spread across his face, energized now.

"My buddy's band is playing at that place down on Fifth tonight. Drinks are on me. You're coming."

Craig opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. The week had taken enough already. Maybe one night of normalcy wouldn't hurt. One night of pretending that things hadn't changed.

"Okay," Craig agreed.

Frank's grin widened.

"Good," Frank said. "Go get ready."