fell asleep.
He woke with a sour belch.
Stale whisky clung to his teeth and grabbing a bottle from the coffee table, he swilled it away with fresh whisky.
Slouching on the sofa, Michael noticed snow-speckled darkness against the window. Night, again. He fidgeted. Then he spotted Cupid sitting on the television set, legs dangling in front of the flickering screen.
Except for a slow blinking of the eyes, Michael grew absolutely motionless.
Cupid watched him, grinning. His appearance was unchanged from their previous encounter. His skin was green and rotten. His eyes swam with bloodshot - except for the irises, which were sour yellow discs.
Cupid tipped his head forward as if to say Are you ready?
Michael told himself Cupid was an hallucination but knew in his rapidly pumping heart he was not. He couldn’t be, because Michael was still drunk from the afternoon. He was not withdrawing. He was not delirious. He was not on the cusp of a seizure.
“Oh fuck,” he murmured, philosophically.
With a phuff of wings, Cupid rose from the television then hurtled at Michael, swooping low over the coffee table then angling up toward his face.
Michael dived sideways, flipping over the armrest. Bouncing off a cushion, Cupid rose, flapped in gleeful circles in the middle of the room, then swooped, uttering a shrill cackling cry.
Accustomed to Cupid’s tactics, Michael aimed a punch at the cherub’s face. Cupid dodged, giggling, then swooped again. Michael rolled, scrambled to his feet and, suspecting it was impossible to lay a fist on the creature, flung himself into the hallway then slammed the door against the pursuing putti .
Cupid thudded against the wood.
The door handle revolved, slowly, but Michael grasped it, gripping it so tightly it seemed the brass would crumple in his fist.
“This cannot be real,” Michael told himself.
No. It was real enough. It simply was not commonplace . . . Or was it? Had Cupid attacked other men before? Men who were broken-hearted? Men, perhaps, who were sober?
Surely not, reasoned Michael. The handle wriggled as Cupid attempted to force his way through.
Unless Cupid always won these tussles. Unless it chewed out its victims’ hearts then disposed of the corpses in some way.
How could a flying baby get rid of a dead body? The stupidity of the question angered Michael. The heart was perhaps the beginning of the cherub’s banquet - the symbolically potent hors d’oeuvre of a larger feast. He hungered for the heart and guzzled the rest out of necessity.
How many lovelorn men seemed to commit suicide every year without their bodies being discovered?
Love and death. Two sides of the same coin.
A coin grasped in the chubby paw of Cupid.
“Why are you doing this?” Michael yelled through the door. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
Twisting, Michael glanced at the front door. An idea formed. No one spoke of Cupid as a real hello-there-he-is creature. He was a furtive being, fearful of discovery. If Michael managed to get outside then retreat to a public place, he would be safe.
Where, though? It was night-time. The shops were shut, the streets empty.
The petrol station, mused Michael. No. He could not stay there until morning. The man behind the counter would not allow it; if needs be, he would call the police and Michael would be dragged away.
It had to be somewhere that people habitually gathered during evening hours.
A nightclub? A brothel?
Suddenly, Michael knew what he must do. He still wore the coat from his last trip to the petrol station. In the pockets were his wallet and mobile phone.
He dug out the phone with his free hand. He scrolled through the address book, found the number of a taxi rank and dialled.
“Yes? Hello? It is? Good. I want a cab for the Golden Horse Hotel. Straight away. More than straight away. Instantaneously. I want you to - to materialize like the fucking Tardis.” He gave the operator his address. The cab would arrive in ten minutes.
He woke with a sour belch.
Stale whisky clung to his teeth and grabbing a bottle from the coffee table, he swilled it away with fresh whisky.
Slouching on the sofa, Michael noticed snow-speckled darkness against the window. Night, again. He fidgeted. Then he spotted Cupid sitting on the television set, legs dangling in front of the flickering screen.
Except for a slow blinking of the eyes, Michael grew absolutely motionless.
Cupid watched him, grinning. His appearance was unchanged from their previous encounter. His skin was green and rotten. His eyes swam with bloodshot - except for the irises, which were sour yellow discs.
Cupid tipped his head forward as if to say Are you ready?
Michael told himself Cupid was an hallucination but knew in his rapidly pumping heart he was not. He couldn’t be, because Michael was still drunk from the afternoon. He was not withdrawing. He was not delirious. He was not on the cusp of a seizure.
“Oh fuck,” he murmured, philosophically.
With a phuff of wings, Cupid rose from the television then hurtled at Michael, swooping low over the coffee table then angling up toward his face.
Michael dived sideways, flipping over the armrest. Bouncing off a cushion, Cupid rose, flapped in gleeful circles in the middle of the room, then swooped, uttering a shrill cackling cry.
Accustomed to Cupid’s tactics, Michael aimed a punch at the cherub’s face. Cupid dodged, giggling, then swooped again. Michael rolled, scrambled to his feet and, suspecting it was impossible to lay a fist on the creature, flung himself into the hallway then slammed the door against the pursuing putti .
Cupid thudded against the wood.
The door handle revolved, slowly, but Michael grasped it, gripping it so tightly it seemed the brass would crumple in his fist.
“This cannot be real,” Michael told himself.
No. It was real enough. It simply was not commonplace . . . Or was it? Had Cupid attacked other men before? Men who were broken-hearted? Men, perhaps, who were sober?
Surely not, reasoned Michael. The handle wriggled as Cupid attempted to force his way through.
Unless Cupid always won these tussles. Unless it chewed out its victims’ hearts then disposed of the corpses in some way.
How could a flying baby get rid of a dead body? The stupidity of the question angered Michael. The heart was perhaps the beginning of the cherub’s banquet - the symbolically potent hors d’oeuvre of a larger feast. He hungered for the heart and guzzled the rest out of necessity.
How many lovelorn men seemed to commit suicide every year without their bodies being discovered?
Love and death. Two sides of the same coin.
A coin grasped in the chubby paw of Cupid.
“Why are you doing this?” Michael yelled through the door. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
Twisting, Michael glanced at the front door. An idea formed. No one spoke of Cupid as a real hello-there-he-is creature. He was a furtive being, fearful of discovery. If Michael managed to get outside then retreat to a public place, he would be safe.
Where, though? It was night-time. The shops were shut, the streets empty.
The petrol station, mused Michael. No. He could not stay there until morning. The man behind the counter would not allow it; if needs be, he would call the police and Michael would be dragged away.
It had to be somewhere that people habitually gathered during evening hours.
A nightclub? A brothel?
Suddenly, Michael knew what he must do. He still wore the coat from his last trip to the petrol station. In the pockets were his wallet and mobile phone.
He dug out the phone with his free hand. He scrolled through the address book, found the number of a taxi rank and dialled.
“Yes? Hello? It is? Good. I want a cab for the Golden Horse Hotel. Straight away. More than straight away. Instantaneously. I want you to - to materialize like the fucking Tardis.” He gave the operator his address. The cab would arrive in ten minutes.
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