The Second Circle’s

She placed the balls of her feet on the glass, arched her soles, activated her glutes, and raised her hips slightly off the cement floor. “Human rights are not cyclical, Greg.”

The silence was pregnant as she waited for a snide remark. None came. “Everything that goes up must come down, except for human rights.”

“Helium.” He chuckled quietly on the other side of the barrier. “Souls in heaven. Blood pressure.”

“Our blood pressure drops considerably when we die.”

“Alright, but I stand by the other two.”

She righted herself, folding her feet under her cross-legged style. “I wish you were this silly when we dated.”

“I wish you were more honest.” Ding ding, fight round bells sounded in her head.

“Three hundred years together and you still don’t know me at all.”

“I know you better than you know yourself.”

“An egotist knows nothing but himself.”

He made a sound in his throat that was a mix between disgust and dismissal. He was less excitable without worldly drugs. She reminisced on their first year, when he would show his rage, only to be defeated by the uselessness and monotony of their situation. Upon waking, he found himself on a perpetually uncomfortable cot, in an eternally bare concrete room, where the only features were two cots, two chairs, and a two-inch-thick transparent barrier that separated the doorless room down the middle.

Their fights were different now. He rarely yelled. His most effective tool for emotional manipulation was dismissal and avoidance. He would lay for hours on his cot, staring at the featureless ceiling, casually choosing complete isolation over engaging with his only companion. She preferred to do yoga, sing, and talk to herself until her thoughts spoken out loud lured him back into conversation. Today they started by reminiscing on policies favoring oppressed minorities. She remembered such policies fondly, while Greg remembered only a corrupt, totalitarian government.

“Not an egotist, more like a humanist.”

“A humanist when it comes to your own progeny.”

He groaned slash growled, “How dare you mention them.”

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

For many years they received updates that felt relevant. A change in president, a disappeared island, a new civil war. News yelled through the walls at other occupants unseen. The lamentations of new residents echoed through Lucifer knows how many compartments like theirs, signaling a new soul not quite adjusted. She would yell out a greeting, then soothing affirmations, and then she would ask questions.

“Where are you from?” “What year was it?” “Do you remember how you died?”

Responses were yelled back, until the new resident settled into a routine with their partner in damnation. The transparent barrier mysteriously muffled no sound, while the seemingly concrete walls prevented them from hearing the subdued conversations of their fellow damned souls. Over the years, her conversations with new souls became less worldly, more soothing, and more informative.

“Welcome darling. Do not fret. You are safe here forever. Please look at your partner. They are scared, too. Stay calm for them.”

Sometimes she would hear two voices yelling out in unison. A deep bass would ring out in concert with a high falsetto. Sometimes two masculine voices raised their lamentations in a roar, or two sweet voices harmonized their screams.

“Where are we? Please help! Is anyone there?”

“Yes,” she would answer. “We are all trapped here like you.”

She looked at Greg. He was laying on his cot as usual. He never slept, and neither did she, yet their cots served many purposes. For Greg, it was a chaise lounge, and something to throw on the rare agitated occasion. For her, it was her ballet barre, a stretching tool, and a sofa from which to observe her only entertainment. Her ex-lover, fellow adulterer, and only friend.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Of all his horrible characteristics, his love wasn’t one. His genuine pain affected her so that she felt sorry for mentioning her. They rarely spoke of the sweet girl, and when they did it was to imagine all the wonderful things she must have accomplished in her life.

“She was strong like her daddy,” she muttered miserably. “She might have become a scientist and cured many diseases.”

He said nothing.

“Or a stay at home mother. For some reason I see her as either a scientist or the world’s greatest mom. I’m not psychic…”

“Definitely and clearly not,” he interrupted her.

“But I have a strong sense that you should be proud.”

He remained staring listlessly at the ceiling. Pondering heaven perhaps, where souls peered over clouds to keep watch on their loved ones. Where perhaps he might have been reunited with sweet Lynn. Maybe wondering if she could see him, even now, in that very second. It could be that heaven bound angels peered directly into the heart of hell. He would never know.

“I know she forgives you, even if HE doesn’t.” She watched him closely for a sign that he was listening. He barely, almost imperceptibly turned his face in her direction, and peered at her through the glass.

“She has nothing to forgive me for.”

“I find that highly impossible.”