Cupid
She’s that girl, a man’s it girl. She knocked him out before he hit the ground, had him at Goddamn fucking “hi there.” One look and he knew he’d have to see her again. Just that first smile and he was gone, crossed the Rubicon.
He can talk to her for hours on end, never bored, never wanting to wander. He finds her infinitely brilliant. Her eyes are dark, mysterious, they silently speak of sex.
Sex with her, his it girl, is better than any fix, the only fix worth chasing. In bed she’s all heat and sweat, her dark brown hair in his face, taking him in until he’s completely lost inside. It’s beautiful and dirty, utterly sick and completely sane. They hold nothing back, both completely laid bare. He wants her with him always, so much it scares him. He loves her beyond reason.
I listen as he tells me on and on in this shithole bar, cliche as any other. It’s the kind of place where your shoes stick to the scuffed wood-floor. It’s dark, dark enough for drunks to take each other home and regret it later. Liquor and red neon, a place for the damned to pass the time and shoot pool.
He’s in his late twenties, younger than me by far. I’ve been talking to him for the better part of an hour, but I’d been watching him much longer. He’s been alone, smoking and drinking and smoking. He’s exactly why I’m here. I think we can help one another.
“So,” I say, “you think she’s it for you?” sipping my scotch. He’s chain-smoking, the bar covered in ashes and ashtrays. An empty glass of long-dead bourbon at his elbow.
“Yeah, definitely, she’s everything I want. I’m just scared, you know?” I do know, but I ask why. “What if she decides I’m not what she wants, or she finds better?”
I knew, these poor suckers are all the same. Scared, lost in things they can’t handle. I polish off my drink, the fucker burns going down.
“You’ve found what you’ve wanted and you’re afraid of losing it before you’ve lost it?”
He says, “I didn’t say it made sense, but fucking, Goddamn it, yes. It’s the worst feeling on this miserable fucking planet. Sometimes, when she’s away, I honest to Christ can’t sleep. It’s ridiculous.”
I look the pale faced kid square in his blue-eyes, “What if I said you could have her, no worries. She’d be all yours, my friend.” He obviously thinks I’m drunk.
He says, “Heh, right. You sell self-help books, or some stupid shit like that?”
“No, I don’t sell self-help books, or some stupid shit like that,” I say flatly. I tell him, “I don’t sell anything, but I do ask for something. It’s really just a small thing.” I order another scotch, neat. My client’s working on a fifth ashtray.
“Sorry, I can’t donate to your fuckin’ church or whatever either. Besides, I don’t think Jesus is into match-making.”
I explain, “This has nothing to do with any church, or Jesus. I don’t want any money. All I want is your soul promised to me.” He laughs, cigarette-smoke flowing from his nose,
“My soul? Don’t I need that?”
I say, “If you have to ask, what do you think?” The guy looks puzzled,
“What about when I die, Heaven or whatever, won’t I need it then?”
“Okay, first off, you don’t know what happens when you die. You have no fucking idea. And even if there is, as you say, Heaven or whatever, how do you know you’ll need anything when you get there? You’re talking in what ifs and maybes, I’m offering you a guarantee, right now.” I tell him this and down my drink.
“So, you get my soul and she’s all mine?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Really? You’re serious?” he asks me.
He really wants to believe me, after so many years I can read people. He’s tired, face drawn. It girls are exhausting for guys like him. “I’m absolutely serious. You allow me your soul and she’s yours until you drop dead.”
He grins, “I could deal with that. Okay, then, what do I do? Sign my name in blood? What?”
I lean in on the bar, “If you’re certain, just tell me your soul is mine and it’s done.”
Skepticism flashes across his face, but he’s sold. He likes the idea. Christ, he loves it. I know these things.
“You’re probably crazy, but fine, fuck it. You can have my soul.” the kid says to me.
I smile, shake his hand. “Now, put out that cigarette, walk out that door. She’s waiting.” He’s gets up, gone without a word, cigarette still glowing faintly in the cheap ashtray. Another satisfied client.
I hear tires screech, sirens just a few minutes later. Red and blue lights dance across the bar. None of it’s for him, my pale faced, blue-eyed client. He’ll go home to his it girl, they’ll have time. He’ll wake up next to her tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He won’t be afraid of anything. Trust me, I know.
I wonder if he’ll need what he gave me.
Share me:
