At first, I thought the ability was useless. An unneeded source in which my frustrations could be relieved temporarily by observing that of what it could cause--to fantasize about what it may feel like to have something of the sort happen to myself. An unprecedented skill that may bring joy to that of those around me, whilst only acting as something that would pull me further into a maddening spiral.

A void. The lonely, empty hole sat at the bottom of my stomach. The darkness at the end of the tunnel--not even the end, but a middle in which no escape had been provided.

At first, I thought this ability that I’d so ironically been given as nothing but another joke to entertain the universe was, in its entirety, useless. This ability to allow those around me to look past their own, selfish desires, and see the love they could achieve. Because, initially, I’d been an observer of such a power--someone to watch the things it could cause. And to feel every bit of pain and sorrow I felt as I realized it could not be me.

Except, that was just it--it wasn’t me, for I was the observer. The one forced sit on the sidelines as such divinity was brought into existence, between one soul and another. I, at first, was only watching. But that was to end--for once, I would take fate into my own hands. Not just my fate, for it had been made clear enough to me by the universe and those within it that I was not capable of love. I was not capable of receiving love.

But that, as I discovered, doesn’t matter. Not now. Because I am the bringer of love. I am the bringer of divinity, brought here to grant it to those who may have believed they were once the same--undeserving of affection, to be at the receiving end of such beautiful yet fleeting desires.

Here’s one now--one of those poor souls, I observe, making their way from this building’s entrance. Ignoring the blaring of the speakers and the music which pours in over the shadowed walls of this small space, walking straight to the counter rested upon by dozens of arms and elbows and hands. His eyes are on her, yet hers are far from his. In fact, they’re avoiding his--darting from surface to surface as her pale skin shimmers in the light, lifting the glass resting neatly within her darkly polished fingertips so that she may relieve her mouth of thirst.

I watch, so close, yet so unnoticed by both the figures as they stand beside each other. One, avoiding the other as he stares down at her, awkwardly shifting in his attempts to catch her attention. Attention which, unfortunately, will never be his.

Unless I act. I, their guardian angel; their bringer of divinity.

He turns toward the man standing behind the counter, a polite smile tugging the corners of his lips as he raises a few fingers for a drink like her own. Only then does she turn toward the counter, when his eyes are finally absent from her form, and places the small glass atop the long slab of wood.

I observe from the corner of my eye now as he tries to smile at her--an attempt to get her to smile back. He’s awkward, I can tell, but he feels the alcohol will loosen him up. Yet, when she looks at him, something odd in his expression sticks; a look that makes her muscles lock with discomfort as she returns his own abnormality with an angelic smile of her own. One that clearly shows her tension.

But he, the innocent being that he is, takes it as a sign, and his smile grows to a grin. Except, when she turns away as quickly as she possibly can, the grin falters. His lips pull into a frown, and only anger is visible. Disappointment. Malice. He feels rejected. And she makes him feel that way.

Selfish, I think, a scowl tempting at my own expression, but I force it to remain calm. I know exactly how to fix this--know that it’s not her fault. Surely it isn’t due to her own, beautiful mind that she cannot see past his nervousness. That she cannot see past what’s allegedly so bad about him.

Still, it makes me want to strangle her. To grab her by the neck and render her breathless--to slam her head off the counter, watch as blood pumps and mixes with the other clear liquid and hear the bone of her skull crack.

But I don’t. I know exactly how to fix this. And I do.

She turns back to look at him--his face, which is lowered to the counter as the bartender slides a glass to him. And she watches as he struggles to drown his rejection in the clear liquid, but she’s quick to try again. To try helping him feel better and, in turn, relieve her own conscience of guilt. But the way she smiles up at him won’t matter for long, because, when I fix it, the smile will be genuine. And the look he’ll give her back--the nervous smile that returns--will be natural and confident.

It’s easy, really. All I do is lift my hand for the smallest second and let my finger lift from my palm, allowing the capsule to drop. And the man behind the counter notices my gesture, but he nods and turns to look back down at what he’s doing, pretending it was a signal for the same liquid. But he probably knows what I’m doing. He knows that I’m going to fix this.

Soon enough, the woman turns from the man and she allows her eyes to drop again. I can see the discomfort finding its way back to her gaze as she lifts the glass, but I can’t help but smile as she takes a big, long swig of it. As the rest of the liquid disappears beyond her red lips, and the glass is left to hit the counter.

Now, I wait. And I don’t know how long I wait, but, eventually, they’re talking just like a couple. She’s staring over at him, her eyes squinting and confused as he grins at her. He says something, and she doesn’t really respond except for the small nod she gives him.

It angers me again when she turns back to the counter--when her brow furrows and her eyelids squeeze shut, as if she doesn’t know how much I just helped her. As if she’s still a selfish cunt--like the only thing she’s going to do tonight is fulfill her quest to make this man feel smaller than her. But I can see her losing herself in him--I can see it in the way her knees are weakening every time she looks over at him, and the smile on his lips. I can see it in the way she stumbles against his figure, speechless and dazed at his touch when his hands lift to grasp her arms. To hold her up like he was always meant to.

I can see it in the way she doesn’t respond to the man behind the counter when he asks if she’s all right--when all she does is nod as the guy slowly turns her from her drink. And I can tell he’s having a bit of trouble, but I’m quick to distract the other man with another signal of my hand. He nods immediately, apologizing for leaving me waiting so long.

And just like that, he’s back to making drinks, his eyes occasionally flicking up to mine in order to make sure I’m not upset with him. But I’m not. How could I be? How could I be upset with anyone?

Right now, as I take the drink from his hands, I can’t be upset with him. I can’t be upset with the nervous guy for messing up his first chance with that woman. I can’t even be upset with her for rejecting him.

Because, when I turn around to the door of the building, I no longer see them inside. Instead, I smile. Because, when my eyes pause at the car situated past the glass door of the place, all I see is him, opening the door for her. Allowing her to fall straight into the backseat so that he can push her further inside. So that he can make her comfortable for the long ride home.