Of Gods and Fame

“What’s your name?” he asked blithely, his lips quirked into an amused smile.

I sighed, putting the mop back in the bucket and trying to ignore the fact that I was wearing my older brother’s overalls in front of the world’s biggest heartthrob — and covered in soapy water, nonetheless. “Nanaja,” I said grumpily, batting away a strand of my dark hair and refusing to look at him. “My parents were obsessed with mythology.”

He was fighting back a grin now, looking downright gorgeous with his cheeks slightly red and his eyes sparkling. “What’s she the God of?” he asked amusedly, lips still slightly curled at the corners.

I sighed, cursing my family for giving me a name that caused conversations to start. I’d have much preferred Betty or Janice; so as to simply get an: ‘oh, you poor soul’ instead of a constant hounding conversation in which I had to explain that I — with my big ears and frizzy hair (genetics could not have screamed ‘virgin’ any louder) — was named after the God of war and sex.

“She was the God of War,” I said simply, unwilling to say the rest. My previous reactions had ranged from a quick look up and down and a confused, raised eyebrow to a crappy pick up line involving my experience, or lack thereof.

He raised a sardonic brow and looked me up and down, taking in my clenched fists and haughty glare with a look that said he was trying not to laugh. “Sort of fits, doesn’t it?”