I barely register his request before something damp and foul-smelling is shoved into my hands. The object feels revolting, and I almost don’t want to know what it is, but I force myself to look at it. Given that I’ve already experienced a surprise “guest” today, receiving the physical manifestation of my soul shouldn't have been too much of a shock. Right? Though the truly shocking thing is how gross it's gotten. It’s wrinkled, dripping with miasma, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where that nauseating stench is coming from. 

What has this guy been doing with it all this time, scrubbing the bathroom floor? Are souls just glorified rags to devils--wait...devils? Shit. 

Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I whirl around and find myself nose-to-nose with Satan himself. Fuck. I mentally kick myself. I completely forgot he was here! Not. Good. 

A quick inventory check of the room reveals an alarming number of things that he could use to kill me for being so insolent. Blunt objects, sharp objects, hell, he doesn’t even need an object, does he? He could snap his fingers, and Poof! Red mist. 

I wrack my brain trying to figure out why he’s here so suddenly. Does it have something to do with when I last saw him? 

The memories from this particular part of my life play out like a cliche TV show. Basically, I loved someone who didn’t love me. But that was ok with me. Somehow they ended up in mortal danger, and, like the hopeless underdog character that I am—was, I traded my soul for their life. 

Maybe I regret it. Maybe I don't. I couldn't change things now, even if I wanted to. Before I can get too caught up reminiscing about past events, I feel my soul get yanked from my hands.

“Wha--Hey! That’s mine!” I shriek, trying to snatch it back. It’s no use. It’s being held far above my head. Who gave the devil the right to be so damn tall? 

“Look, I’ll give it back to you if you do me one teeny-tiny favor. Okay?” 

I huff as I cross my arms over my chest and fix the devil with an unamused look. “Alright, fine. What do you want? As I recall, there wasn’t anything in our contract stating I could get my soul back—under any circumstances, so what gives?” 

I give the devil a once over. It's been a while since I last saw him. Same old business suit and tie as last time, still inhumanly tall, same two pointy horns and half-burnt wings, but something’s...off. He’s smiling. Not a nasty I’m-going-to-condemn-you-to-torture-for-eternity smile, but a pleasant smile? Oddly, Satan's eerily attractive when he’s not exuding bloodlust. 

What are you thinking? He’s the literal devil! That’s wrong on so many levels. 

Satan “ahem’s” loudly, stirring me from my unwanted thoughts about his physical attributes. Sighing, I gesture to the one couch in my living room as I lean against the doorframe, ready to hear him out. Satan looks skeptically at the fur-encrusted couch—I hope he isn’t allergic to cats—before perching on the edge of it, draping my soul on the cushion next to him. The dingy thing looks perfectly at home on my ruddy furniture. 

“Would you mind telling me the nature of this “favor” of yours?” 

“W-well, I need your help...With something.” 

I stare at him, waiting for him to continue. 

“I’ll need a little more than that to go on if you want me to help you.” 

“...I need you to teach me how to flirt…” 

Well, that's not what I was expecting to hear. 

“ Look, I know that I sold my soul for romantic reasons, albeit misguided ones, but you do realize that it didn’t work out, right?” It pains me to admit this to him, but I don't need the ruler of the underworld thinking I'm some sort of love guru. 

“Well, yes--”

Fuck. So my epic failure is known even in the underworld? 

“--But,” he continues, “I don’t know that many people who know stuff like this. Demons don’t date, and every non-demon I know has killed more people than you. Frankly, you’re my safest option.” He’s got me there. I haven’t killed anyone. In fact, I technically reverse killed my love interest that one time. 

“Besides,” he adds, still blushing a bit, “I think what you did was romantic, even if it did blow up in your face.” 

I moan internally. 

Please shut up already. 

“Fine, I’ll help you.” 

Anything to keep us from exploring that topic anymore. 

“Really?” 

I sigh, “Yes really.” 

Satan stands from his spot on the couch, brushes off the fur clinging to his pants, and heads towards the door, dodging around the ceiling light, hanging dangerously close to his head. “Then, I’ll stop by later to get started. I’ve an...appointment I must attend first,” This time, his smile is totally an I’m-going-to-condemn-you-to-torture-for-eternity smile. I'm sure his “appointment” won’t be too pleased by his arrival. 

He pulls the door open and pauses, clearing his throat. 

“...Thank you. I’m counting on you.” 

I give him a slight nod and a smile as he closes the door to my apartment. 

Finally, I’m alone. I glance towards my soul on the couch, still emitting its awful stench, still oozing something unspeakable, and realize; I have no clue how to reinstall this thing, and I’m pretty sure I would catch every disease known to man if I tried to put it back in as it is now. I wonder, briefly, if throwing it in with my next load of delicates would clean it. I sigh.

I’ll figure out what to do with it later; I muse as I toss it into my laundry basket. If regular detergent doesn’t fix it, I suppose I’ll just have to shell out some cash for the dry-cleaning.