Morning in the Delphi

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Morning in the Delphi

Zeus sat on a stool at the bar in the Delphi, leaning on one elbow. A large ceiling fan turned slowly above his head, barely moving the molasses-thick July air. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows across the room behind him, throwing the hard shadows of the empty tables onto the ancient hardwood floor. At that moment the only occupants of the bar were Zeus and a fair-sized cockroach.

Zeus rubbed the stubble of salt-and-pepper beard on his chin and watched the cockroach scamper past his coffee mug, across the top of the bar, and behind the sugar bowl. If I can just concentrate hard enough… A wave of the hand, and Blammo! Smoking cockroach-sized pile of ashes.

Zeus was not a young man, but he didn’t really look like a guy who had been around for more than seven thousand years. He was tall, and a little bit broader across the shoulders than the shots of grey in his hair and the crinkles around the eyes might suggest. He was, however, beginning to develop a very un-Godlike paunch.