Author's Note: This is a bleak glimpse into the emotional toll taken on Keima after years of working with Elsie. References are made to several works by T.S. Eliot and Robert Frost. I'm not laying claim to either of their poetry, just using it for dramatic effect.

I do not own The World God only Knows nor any of the manga's/anime's Affiliates

I am jaded. Pale. An outline of myself devoid of color, or substance. I feel like a fly perched on the rim of my own glasses - not the man behind them. Another girl, Elsie tells me, and I nod into my neck before looking up.

This one'll be easy, no doubt. She has pretty red hair and eyes that shine a deep grey, conjuring up the image of rain on pavement. Her translated body language reveals all I need to know about her personality, her character, or rather, lack thereof.

She's a boring book-type full of mean remarks saved for those who try and crack her icy shell. Nothing I haven't dealt with a dozen times before.

It's all become uniform, a tedium I can't seem to shirk. Any attempt I make at enthusiasm seems foreign to me now, and to others. Others being Elsie, of course. No room for friends in my line of work, not that I'd make any.

"Hey," the demon-girl nudges my shoulder, planting me back in reality, "aren't you gonna go up to her?" Her expression is open and inquisitive, just on the edge of annoying.

"You don't happen to have any poetry books, do you? In your bag or something?" I ask, already knowing the answer. Elsie shakes her head in the negative, and I wonder how she can be so ill-prepared after years of similar trials.

"Nope, sorry!"

Her answer means a trip to the library, that of which we direct ourselves to after school has ended for the day. The afternoon breathes heavy on our backs as we arrive at those familiar glass doors. Inside reveals more familiarity, the scent of dry paper and oak thickening the air. At the checkout sits Shiori Shiomiya, guarded in a fortress of black, green and white; so much white.

I gesture absently at her, and she to me, before I begin my scan of the room's infinite shelves. Much to my chagrin, the entire 'poetry' section has been moved, due to reorganization I would guess. When I ask Shiori she confirms my suspicions.

"All of the poetry has been relocated to 'English Literature' for the time being. I apologize for the confusion."

"It'd be best if you would put up a sign should this happen in the future." I suggest, and the stiffness in my tone is one I recognize. As I turn my back to leave I think I catch a glimpse of something on her face, a lingering something I can't place.

But then it's gone, and I continue on to the 'English Literature,' where ten or six eleven lay half-open on the floor. They are all identically marked, making it difficult to find the exact book I want. It's a collection by T.S. Eliot, printed in japanese. I take a brief moment to flip through.

Elsie's full of questions but none that warrant my attention. Tomorrow finds us in our classroom, me skating through the latest dating sim, her playing absently with a pen. After the lesson is finished, I turn to observe the target, Haruka. Her name is impertinent to my end goal.

As I make my approach, she glances up at me from a dull-edged novel. We've never spoken, and had I not been assigned to exorcise the wayward devil that's taken residence in her heart, we most certainly never would.

"Hello, I couldn't help but notice the title of your book."

She flipped it as if to remind herself, "Yeah?"

"And it's one of my favorites." I say, convincing even myself. It eases the process. In actuality I couldn't care less about her reading material; it only serves to bring my plan to fruition. "I picked up something from the library recently and want your take on it. I've seen you around and figured you had a knack for all things literary. Am I wrong?"

She, 'Haruka,' smiles at the compliment. This is very telling to me, in that her weakness lies in her pride. I can see many paths unfolding in my mind's eye, some leading to success, some to failure. Even a few that would get us in the women's room in less than an hour, minus clothing.

"You're not wrong, no."

I remove the T.S Eliot collection from its place at my side, and she immediately brightens. The book she had been reading yesterday was a selection of Rudyard Kipling's best work, leading me to believe she had an interest in the classics. Thus, I came to the conclusion: Eliot. Her beaming is to the affirmative.

"I've always found 'The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock' to be his magnum opus, as opposed to 'The Wasteland' or 'Hollow Men.' What do you think?" My question is reserved, just shy of too intimate for a first conversation.

"I love all of them!" Naturally. "But my favorite has to be, 'The Wasteland.'"

Having done my reading, I respond with a not-so-oft-quoted line, "Those were the pearls that were his eyes."

"Yes!" Haruka's reaction, wonderful as it is, does little to stir me. At this time I pinch the stem of my glasses, lifting them from the bridge of my nose to rest on the table between us. In her short moment of vulnerable excitement, she views a different me. An alien, handsome me. The tinted red of her cheeks is a sign of success to come.

"Personally, Prufrock speaks volumes about..."

… and so on, until blue is sheathed in purple and evening has settled into its starry sheets. We've left school hours ago, but there is time yet, and opportunity, before nightfall - the cut-off point. All the build-up is for naught if I'm unable to act, and now, with a wealth of experience, there is no trepidation. No hesitation. At seven thirteen, after getting dinner at a spot I've frequented with many another girl, we arrive at the crossroads between our separate homes. What irony, what poetry.

"I had a really fantastic time today, Keima." Hakura says, bashfully avoiding my purposeful gaze.

"I did as well."

With honesty in my lying eyes, I lift her chin with a gentle finger, and we kiss. The music swells, her heart flicks from 'vacant' to 'occupied,' and Elsie captures the escaping spirit in a comically undersized jar.

Before she has time to blink, we've vanished into darkness.

Your welcome.

Satisfaction never visits long enough to satisfy.

I wonder if I'll ever stumble my way into actual love, instead of deftly navigating through fast-fleeting falsehoods. There's a part of me that thinks it impossible; there's a part of me that thinks I already have at least a hundred times over. Regardless, I have a contract to fulfill...

And miles to go before I sleep,

and miles to go before I sleep...

I hope you enjoyed this little AU glimpse, and if you did (or didn't), feel free to tell me your opinion via review. Thanks.