Chapter 3 Cupid
Cupid
Most people would think Valentine’s Day is my busiest day; it’s quite the opposite. Valentine’s Day is, without fail, my slowest day of the year.
Think about it. What happens in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day?
Stores stock cards and gifts, theaters show romantic movies, and restaurants start to advertise fancy, expensive dinners for two.
I don’t have to do any of the work; society takes care of it for me.
One of the reasons I love Valentine’s Day so much.
Another reason: I see pictures of myself everywhere.
Sure, they’re all depictions of me as a chubby winged baby in diapers…
but it’s still kind of cool. Not like Zeus or Apollo get to see their ugly mugs all over everything—and I know it makes them jealous.
That kind of thing has a way of making a guy feel special.
(And it’s not narcissistic, I swear. If you’ve ever tried to have a conversation with Narcissus, you would know the difference.
I’m just adept at the practice of self-love.)
So anyone would understand why I was annoyed when the Fates called me to this last-minute “emergency meeting,” and why I got tipsy before joining them at their chosen spot.
Usually, I would be buck-naked, lying face down while a robust Swedish woman kneads the muscles in my back until I loosen like modeling clay under her deft fingers. Ah, Brigitta. How I wish you were here.
But alas, I can’t exactly say no to the Fates when I’m called upon to fulfill a duty. Plus, I kind of owe them one for—actually, let’s leave it at that. It’s enough to know I can’t refuse them.
And that’s how I end up sitting at an all-night diner ten minutes until midnight, still buzzed from a couple of Long Island Iced Teas (which are actually delightful, by the way) and meeting the girl of my dreams. Or at least she’ll be the girl of my dreams for tonight…
and maybe tomorrow night, and the night after that.
And definitely my daydreams. I’ll be thinking about her later, while I—
A coffee cup slams onto the Formica table, jolting me out of my stream of consciousness.
The disinterested waitress pulls out her order pad and smacks her chewing gum. “What can I getcha, hon?” Her pen hovers over the order pad as she taps her tennis shoes against the dirty tiled floor.
Tina, according to the name tag pinned to her shirt.
As a lover, I’d like to win this Tina over.
“Having a nice Valentine’s Day?” I give her a wink. The ladies always love a wink.
Tina looks at me, eyebrows raised, and says, “Oh yeah, I’m having the time of my life.” She blows a bubble; it pops loudly. “Are you ready to order or not?”
Damn, I thought my mystery bombshell was a tough nut to crack. Tina here could stare down Hades without blinking an eye.
“Just, uh, the coffee for now,” I tell her. Tina just rolls her eyes and tucks the pen and pad back into her apron.
Well, that interaction brought me down a peg. I pop the collar of my jacket and fix my hair in the reflection of the metal napkin holder. Still look like a million bucks, though.
My fingers drum on the table top as I look around the establishment, taking it all in. Can’t say I blame Tina for being a bit standoffish, considering some of the customers in this place.
A man at the end of the counter is playing a harmonica between bites of egg (even worse, he ordered them sunny-side up).
There’s a group of mimes piled into a booth near the front door who appear to be in a silent standoff with a group of clowns across from them.
And a woman sitting behind me ordered the bottomless ribs special, which is… brave, to say the least.
But that’s all completely normal compared to what’s about to come rolling through this diner. Their clientele is about to get much, much weirder in T-minus—I spin around to check the clock behind the counter—one minute.
Nothing I can do about it now.
When I turn back to my coffee, I nearly jump out of my skin; three women have appeared in the booth opposite me.
“Fuck!” I yelp. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
Six identical eyes look up at me, wide and watery, gray as choppy seas. Their heads cock to the side, one after the other in quick succession.
“Hello, Cupid,” the women chorus from across the table in unison. The Fates have finally decided to grace me with their presence.
I’ve known the Fates my whole life—and they’ve known me even longer. Yet they never get less creepy. It helps a little to call them by their nicknames—Clo, Lala, and Attie—because it makes them seem less…ethereal, I guess. But they’re still very spooky.
“You came,” says the first—Clo, the oldest of the three. “Yes, you’re here,” says the second woman, Lala. “At last,” says the third, Attie.
I cross my arms. “At last? You’re kidding me. I got here before you.” Grumbling under my breath, “And on my day off, too.”
Three heads angle to the other side in unison. Gods, I always forget how freaky they are. Must be some sort of defense mechanism to avoid nightmares.
“You’ve been avoiding us,” says Clo with a blink of her disconcertingly wide eyes. “We have called on you several times.”
“Yes,” comes Lala’s affirmation. “Several times.”
“Why?” asks Attie.
The obvious answer—the true answer—is because the Fates scare me. I’ve never gotten used to their whole woo-woo triplets who can see into the future and finish each other’s sentences thing. But I opt for the polite answer instead.
“Ladies, you know I love seeing you, but I’ve been up to my ears in work lately. Absolutely drowning in paperwork.”
Silence, then: “He’s lying,” in unison.
You know what? That’s on me for thinking I could get one over on them.
The Fates just stare at me, and I become an unwilling participant in this silent staring contest. We sit like this for several moments, interrupted only by Tina walking up to the table, taking in our strange tableau, and turning on her heel without a word.
Fair enough. I wouldn’t be here either if I didn’t have to be.
“Sooooo,” I break the silence, “what’s up?”
Clo clasps her hands and sets them on the sticky table’s surface, leans forward. “We’ve seen something. Something that could change the destiny of humanity.”
“Oh, so nothing major then,” I quip.
No reaction. Tough crowd.
Clearing my throat, I try again. “Go on.”
The weird sisters stare at me.
“Please.”
“There’s a woman, here in San Francisco, named Felicity Love,” Clo tells me. “And she must be stopped at all costs.” With a loud whap, Clo slaps a piece of paper onto the table before sliding it toward me.
“That’s really interesting, but, uh…what does any of that have to do with me?”
Then she lifts her hand, and I see that it’s not a piece of paper, but a picture. And the picture is of my mystery bombshell.
Felicity. I let the name roll around in my mind. Felicity Love. A huge grin spreads across my face.
“Leave it to me, ladies.”
Clo, Lala, and Attie exchange looks. “We haven’t even told you the details yet.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m in.”