Cupid

Short story

      All this goddamn love in the air. It’s like the Eighth Plague. I hate spring. All these friggin’ birds squawking out their love songs. Why won’t they just drop dead? People wander the streets looking for that right guy or girl. They take up all the stools at the bars drooling like Pavlov’s dogs. Hopeless romantics desperate to find that one fish in the sea. I’ve seen it a billion times before. With spring comes new hope. Hope for love and happiness after the stale of winter. It’s complete bullshit of course. People don’t fall in love because of hope, destiny or any other ridiculous romantic mumbo-jumbo. People fall in love because of me. That’s my job. All your moronic mushy feelings, those butterflies in your stomach, that urge to curl your hair around your finger, that twinkle in his eyes, those shy smiles and fluttering eyelashes- yeah, that’s all me.

      That’s also why I’m sitting here in this cruddy little Irish Pub that usually hosts frat boys and sorority girls. But not this evening. Who actually meets their true love in a bar anymore? What a cliche. Still,  all the years sort of blur into one when you’ve been pairing people up for as long as I have.

      I drop back another shot. The alcohol burns down my throat and settles warmly in my belly. The aftertaste is horrid, like licking the foot of a homeless man, but I ignore it. I check my watch. Jesus, who’s late for their own tinge of serendipity? These two, of course. Just my luck.

      The door of the pub swings open. It smacks into the wall behind and the painting of dogs playing poker sways. Three drunken fools stumble in laughing too loudly. I squint my eyes. Is that him? It is. The three of them cram into a booth. The bartender walks over a pitcher and sets it down on their table before they even order.

    "So what's your poison, sweetheart?"

    I glance up at the new bartender.

     "The name’s Valentine not sweetheart. And I'll have a-" I grumble and take a quick look at the chalkboard. "Whiskey Seduction."

    He smirks. "One Seduction it is."  

    I turn back to the three buffoons across the bar. The door creaks and two girls wander in. The girls peer around before taking their seat at a table not too far from me. Finally, let's get this show on the road. I grab the shot of liquid courage from the bar, knock it back, and slam the glass down on the counter triumphantly.

      I watch them in silence. From where they sit, they have a perfect view of each other. They share hungry looks, not at all subtle. Yet neither of them move from their respective places. That’s okay, though. After all, that’s why I’m here. I’m that little kick in the a*s that some people need.

      I jam my hand into my jacket pocket and feel the cool metal against my fingers. I’ve got to say since they invented guns it’s made my job a whole lot easier. That bow and arrow, as classic as the look is, was always more trouble than it was worth. It’s not exactly normal to see someone walk down the busy city sidewalk with a bow in one hand and a quiver full of arrows slung over their shoulder anymore. At least, that’s been my experience. Now I rely on this handy little pistol.

      Across the room, the girl with her hair coiled around her head like a golden crown comes up to the bar. Her gaze is clouded and her mind is otherwise occupied with the man across the room. I can practically see the gears turning in her head. She flicks some loose hair out of her face and gives a heart-stopping smile. Jesus, could that have been anymore nauseating? I’ve seen wild boars flirt better. They both don’t get any points for originality, that’s for certain.

     The girl orders a beer and for a second her attention flickers to me. She blinks and her eyes narrow. She’s trying to place me. She’s never seen me in her life but I’ve seen this look before. It’s utterly bewildered. Her face ignites and she quickly looks away. It’s almost laughable. My fingers ease around the grip of my pistol. This is going to be easier than I thought. I slip the gun free of the fabric encasing it and I hide it between my body and the edge of the bar. It’s lighter than it looks but that’s because it's holding blanks. No sense in causing any serious harm.

Besides, the only real wound that this gun could give was to its owner. That’s one thing they left out of the stories. We weren’t about to reveal all of our tricks. So as far as this are concerned they were never in harm's way to begin with.  But, that’s not the point of this. This is all about love. The most exquisite pain there is. It is plain in its simplicity and torture in its end.

      I shake off the feelings hanging from me like chains and listen to them clatter to the floor around my feet. Love. Affection. Infatuation. Lust. Idolization.  All smash to the ground with an unceremonious thud. The familiar click of the cocking gun sounds. No one besides me hears it over the News Anchor rambling  on. It catches my attention as the women describes the suspect but I’ve got other things to think about. I have to concentrate. The last thing I need is a missed target.

      I stand, raise the gun, and pull the trigger.

     The girl swirls, she squeezes her eyes shut as she clutches her neck. Perfect shot just a graze. She rubs at it like a mosquito bite. I turn on my heels and snap off the next shot. It hit home. I sit back and watch the scene play out. The bartender disappears into the back. Damn.  

      The buffoon swears and rubs at his shoulder. I sit there waiting impatiently, foot tapping a broken beat against the hardwood flooring. Their eyes meet across the room and like a flash of lightning it hit them full force. Knocks the wind out of their lungs and slam their hearts against their ribs. It’s almost like something out of a cartoon. I grip my empty shot glass in one hand. He pulls himself from the vinyl cover of the booth and meets her halfway across the dance floor. I couldn’t make out their words but the smiles plastered on their faces says more than enough. After years of doing the job, you get pretty good at telling when you’ve made a decent pair.

      It was disgustingly delightful. And a painful reminder.

      I slump into the bar letting it carry my weight. Spring. All those happy faces and birds singing in their nests. Love. It’s all too much. Suddenly sitting in the bar watching all the romantics go at it is about as pleasant as soaking in a bathtub of battery acid. I jerk around looking for that bloody bartender. He’s nowhere I can see.

     The girl laughs as he swings her around keeping to the tempo of the music. Her hair falls out of its twisted braid as he tips her over his arm. Her scarf, red as blood, jumps through the air.  I watch as their world tilts, pulling mine along for the ride before snapping back.Their laughter bounces off the walls. It’s contagious. The entire bar is alive. People move their bodies to the frantic beat. Their voices rise and fall to match the music pounding in their eardrums. Pulses spike and sweat blankets each of them like an extra layer of skin. But, I’m immune and tired of all these fluttering eyelashes and flashes of grins. Sick of all these reminders of what I lost. Completely fed up with all these gooey feelings and painful memories which seemed to drill their way to the surface even though I pile more on top of them.

      I shove the memories down hard.

     I smack my hand down on the bar and call down to the bartender who still hasn’t made an appearance since he left. I shift and the metal of the gun digs into my thigh. My hand wraps around the grip. The gun is still warm but not burning.  A glimpse of movement catches my eye. They’re still twirling in the middle of the dance floor. Staring at each other with fresh love in their eyes.

      My heart drops further as I watch them. The heat of the metal radiates into my skin.

      Love is the banquet from which they all feed. And, there I sit starved. Barely any more than skin and bones all for the sake of love lost and love found. My fingers tighten around the pistol in my hand. The tool that’s given so many, so much, but only taken from me.

     The pistol that took him from me. The pistol that should have given him to me. And, still I hold the finest craft love has to offer between sweaty palms and shaking fingers like I would my first born. A weapon that had made mortal enemies declare their devotion for one another.  Forever and always cherished. Never again to be alone. Souls bound together with the tightest of knots.   

     I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. My face ashen with streaks of purple circling each eye. Wine red hair hanging in tangles. Muddy brown eyes bloodshot. Broken, utterly shattered and completely hopeless. The shell of the girl I used to be. I shake my head to ripple the reflection. She stares back at me through his dead eyes.

     I turn away and trace my fingers along the barrel. I stare out into the bar and watch them. Watch them all as they play their hands, all showing hearts.  

     I raise the gun, taste the iron against my tongue, and press the trigger.  

Author's Note

Not my final draft of this piece, try to ignore the errors. Thanks.