The Vase

If there was a one percent chance of rain, Leo Caletti would get soaked. If there was a single nail on a three-mile stretch of highway, Leo’s tire would find it. He was a man who lived his life in a defensive crouch, waiting for the universe to drop the other shoe. Usually, the shoe was a steel-toed boot.

It was a Sunday morning in San Francisco, and the fog was hugging the Victorian houses of the Haight like a damp sweater. Leo was at the Alemany Flea Market, clutching a lukewarm coffee and trying to avoid making eye contact with a vendor selling "haunted" dolls.

He failed.

"You have a kind face," the vendor, a woman who looked like she was carved out of dried apple, croaked. "You need a vessel."

"I really don't," Leo said, his voice smooth, practicing the charm that was his only defense against the cosmos. "I have plenty of vessels. Tupperware, mostly."

"Take this one." She shoved a pottery object into his hands.

It was hideous. It was a Greek-style amphora, but if the artist had been drunk and working in the dark. The clay was a muddy ochre, painted with figures that looked less like gods and more like stick figures having a panic attack. It was chipped, dusty, and vibrated slightly in his hands.

"Five dollars," the woman said. "It has been waiting for a clumsy man."

Leo sighed. He looked at the vase. It was ugly, unwanted, and likely cursed. He felt a kinship with it.

"Fine," Leo said, handing over a five-dollar bill. "But if a genie comes out, I'm asking for a refund."

He walked back to his apartment on Masonic Avenue, dodging a rogue skateboarder and a pigeon with dubious aim. His apartment was a second-floor walk-up, filled with the chaotic detritus of an architect’s mind: drafting tables covered in blueprints, half-finished balsa wood models of skyscrapers, and a rug that he had been meaning to tape down for three years.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

"Alright, you ugly thing," Leo muttered to the vase. "Where do you go? The mantle? The closet?"

He took a step forward.

His toe caught the edge of the rug.

Time seemed to slow down. It was a familiar sensation for Leo—the moment of suspension before the disaster. He saw the floor rushing up. He felt the vase slip from his fingers. He tried to twist, to save it, but gravity was a strict mistress.

*CRASH.*

The vase hit the hardwood floor. It didn't just break; it detonated.

A cloud of golden glitter, smelling of ozone and ambrosia, exploded outward, knocking Leo onto his back. The windows rattled. The cat clock on the wall fell off.

"Ouch," a voice said.

Leo blinked, coughing through the glitter.

Standing in the middle of his living room, amidst the shards of cheap pottery, was a woman.

She was glowing. Literally. A soft, pearlescent light radiated from her skin. She was wearing what looked like a toga made of shimmer-silk, but she had paired it with muddy combat boots. Her hair was a riot of golden curls that defied gravity, and she was rubbing her hip.

"That," the woman said, looking around the cluttered apartment, "was a very rude landing."

Leo lay on the floor, staring up at her. "I'm hallucinating. The mold in the bathroom has finally reached my brain."

The woman looked down at him. Her eyes were the color of the sky right before a storm clears. She tilted her head.

"You are the Summoner?" she asked.

"I'm Leo," he croaked. "And you are trespassing."

"I am Thalia," she announced, striking a pose that belonged on a frieze. "Minor Goddess of Serendipity, Happy Accidents, and Finding Money in Your Winter Coat Pocket."

She waited for applause.

Leo slowly sat up, brushing ceramic dust off his shirt. "You're a goddess. From the vase I bought for five bucks."

"Inflation is hitting everyone," Thalia shrugged. She walked over to his drafting table and poked a model building. It wobbled. "Olympus is downsizing. I was put on... sabbatical. In a jar. Until summoned by a 'clumsy mortal with a pure heart.'" She looked him up and down. "You certainly have the clumsy part down."

"And the heart?"

"Debatable," she said, picking up a stapler and looking at it with intense fascination. "Is this a weapon?"

"It's a stapler. Please put it down." Leo stood up, his knees cracking. "Okay, Thalia. Joke's over. Where are the cameras? Is this a prank show? Did my brother hire you?"

Thalia frowned. She pointed a finger at Leo’s toaster.

*ZAP.*

The toaster levitated three inches off the counter, glowed bright pink, and then shot two pieces of perfectly golden toast into the air.

Leo caught the toast reflexively. It was hot.

"I don't do pranks," Thalia said haughtily. "I do miracles. Or, well, coincidences. Now, do you have any nectar? I'm parched."

Leo looked at the toast. He looked at the glowing woman. He looked at the pile of shards that used to be a five-dollar vase.

"I have boxed wine," Leo said. "And tap water."

Thalia brightened. "Boxed wine. The nectar of the people. Pour me a chalice, Summoner. We have work to do."

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