Adam once told me that I was an afterthought. That God had made Adam “in his image”, and that only afterward had he created me.
“Eve,” he would said, “The original sequel.”

I talked to God. He told me that, no, Adam was a mistake. He said he was prepared to smite Adam with one of his lightning bolts or something else, but Adam, ever the coward; groveled, and promised he would try to become closer to God. God created me, not as a sequel, but to be the restart button. When he told me this, God grinned. Then I asked him how he started Life, his grin dropped.

“Sometimes, I think I made you too curious,” He told me. “It’s not going to be what the story you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

As soon as he said that, I knew he was about to lie. Lie right through he teeth. The story he told me said it took him a week.
“Seven days?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then when did you make Adam?”
“The sixth day.”
“What about me?”
“Later the sixth day.”
“Sure.”
Yes, I love God. But he also happened to have problems with honesty. He prefers a good story to what actually happened. If I were to tell a story that was about how I was about to have a picnic in one of the fields of Eden, when it started raining, then I had to run under a tree. He would take this story and turn it into one of his, “Wrath of God” stories, and preempt my story with an anecdote about how that very day I had gotten in a fight with him, and so he caused a great storm to punish me. No matter how I would try and dissuade his version of the story, he would insist he had gotten mad at me.
When I try to talk to Adam about how God does this, all Adam ever does is stare at me. I’m stuck between a jerk and an arrogant god.

The only truth I’ve gotten through God is that the first thing he created he ever created were the trees. I only know this is true because it makes sense. The trees in Eden tower and are never ending. From what I understand of him God can’t speed time; he’s a sculptor, not a magician, even if he won’t admit it.

One beautiful night in Eden (they are all beautiful nights), I go to see God again. We are sitting how we always sit. I am at the highest point of the largest tree in Eden, the one right next to God’s home, and watching waves hit the white shore. God is at his window, about ten feet away from the highest point. He is lying down in his bed and looking out the window. He is also half asleep, which is helpful. God values his dreams and so will say whatever you want just so he can get to them. I asked him, again, how he started Life.

“I thought about how lonely I was, and then life began appearing around me,” God closed his eyes, “You were the last thing I though of.”


His eyelids dropped, his odd smile returned and his breath become wide and shallow. I slip down to the cool grass and run to get to the tree I sleep underneath.