Chapter 2

Acoustically, the divine courtyard reflected sound like a finely tuned concert hall. In fact, often the gods and goddesses gathered at the courtyard to enjoy flutes and harps and dance. Regal statues, rivalling any by Michelangelo, littered the space, overlooking comfortable benches designed for immortals.

Venus lounged upon one of the various benches, enjoying the quiet solitude and the bright sunlight bathing her toned, exquisite features. While she lacked the athleticism and strategy of Athena and the wisdom and insight of Hera, Venus enjoyed the sensuality and hedonism of her station. Her thoughts wandered to Apollo, her body yearning for his touch, his dance, his light.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Apollo’s mellifluous voice drifted across the courtyard, touching Venus’ ears.

“Hermes, I’m telling you, her face rivalled Helen’s. I have never witnessed such beauty in a mortal. She stood, a melancholy creature, statuesque in the bitter winds, her hands squeezing the railing as if to prevent herself from plummeting. I cannot imagine why such an engaging creature, with the world helpless at her perfect toes, might choose to ascend to heaven before her time. I must consult with the Fates. Regardless, I spoke with her, and her voice, it, too, captivated me.”

An ironic chuckle. Hermes’ distinctive gravel voice followed Apollo.

“Did you bed her?”

Venus could not hear Apollo’s response, presumably a positive or negative gesture. She opted to remain sitting as the gods conversed, content to listen. His answer would not affect her. No mortal girl could hope to rival a goddess. If she allowed Apollo’s indiscretions to impact her, Venus would rage into infinity. Gods always returned to goddesses. It was the way of the universe.

The god’s footsteps rang across the courtyard without pause, clearly ignorant of Venus’ veiled presence.

Apollo sighed.

“She’s a mortal,” Hermes noted. “You are not.”

“When has that ever stopped me?”

Again, Hermes chuckled in acknowledgement.

The footsteps stopped at the far edge of the courtyard, their voices fading.

Apollo, unknowingly and innocently, spoke the next words, the words that changed Psyche’s destiny forever.

“Hermes, my friend, this mortal, this Psyche, is more beautiful, more enchanting, more alluring, even, than Venus herself. Men and women truly worship her image. Venus has not managed that in millennia.”

Truthfully, Apollo’s words approached unwise hyperbole.

It simply didn’t matter.

As the gods strode away, oblivious to Fate twisting in their wake, Venus closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and schemed.

Cupid tapped her bare foot against the cool polished marble floor of the amphitheatre, gazing out at the lifelike statues surrounding the audience chamber. As usual, her mother disregarded any semblance of promptness, despite demanding Cupid’s presence here.

What the hell was Apollo thinking?

The Fates had sequestered in order to untwist the tangles. Her mother, not known as the most rational goddess, had oft caused consternation with the Moirai. The Troy affair briefly crossed Cupid’s mind. Apollo really ought to know better. Loose lips and ships and all that.

Pulling her bow from her shoulder, Cupid fingered the bowstring like the weapon might produce perfectly tuned notes. While her aim rivalled Athena’s, Cupid rarely relied on the bow in her duties, preferring to enchant more ordinary objects to avoid unintended accidents. She sighed heavily.

“There you are.” Venus appeared, stalking onto the amphitheatre stage to join her daughter.

“Mother.”

The immortals embraced and then separated.

“You realize that tomorrow is February fourteenth?” Cupid ventured. She could never dissuade Venus, but she must at least make the attempt.

Venus waved away the minor objection. “What does Valentine’s have to do with anything?”

Cupid raised one eyebrow, but remained silent, watching as Venus paced in tight circles, her hands animated.

“The nerve of that girl...”

“Who, Mother?”

Venus paused, whirled, and cast a disbelieving look at her daughter. Of course, Cupid knew the source of the consternation. Everyone dwelling at Olympus had heard Venus’ outrage regarding the alluring, upstart mortal.

“Psyche, of course.”

Cupid sighed again. “She’s only a mortal, Mother. Apollo even failed to bed her. Maybe we let this one go?”

Venus resumed her pacing. After a time, she halted and regarded her daughter, who still cradled her bow as if it were a child.

“We must stop her, Cupid, darling. The universe must return to balance. They worship her! Worship! She is not an immortal. She will never be an immortal.”

Cupid failed to understand the issue, but halting her mother’s rant seemed akin to halting Helios’ daily rise in the East.

“So, what do you need from me?” Cupid asked, dreading the answer. In the Troy affair, she recalled firing a not-so-innocent arrow directly at Paris, fulfilling Venus’ behest.

Venus touched her chin with her index finger, lost in thought.

“This Psyche, this charlatan, has an unscrupulous mortal agent by the name of Walter. Walter sold his soul to Hades years ago. If Psyche were to fall in love with Walter, the man would drain her beauty. Hades would ensure it, rejoice in it.”

“You want me to shoot Psyche?” Cupid brandished her bow to emphasize her words.

Venus merely nodded affirmatively.

“You remember what happened when you sent me to bewitch Paris, right?”

Only an insignificant war, barely remembered.

If she recalled correctly, the fateful arrow of Troy found its mark in mid-February. History repeats.

Again, Venus waved away the useless objection as though carelessly deflecting a hurricane.

“And, more importantly, mid-February is a busy time for me,” Cupid added, knowing that even this would not sway her mother from her chosen course.

“Pfft,” Venus retorted and drew herself to her full impressive height. “I am your mother, and I command this.”

Cupid sighed. Apollo had sealed Psyche’s fate the moment he spied her alone on that frigid balcony, igniting an inevitable and fearsome jealousy.

Men!

Cupid nodded resignedly.

“I’ll do my best, Mother.”

Steam billowed from her lips, dissolving into the frigid February morning. Her toes encased in warm ankle boots, Cupid strode down the deserted sidewalk, the soles of the boots indenting a fine dusting of snow. No clouds scudded across the azure sky above; sunlight greeted her.

A cute couple, bundled against the cold, walked glove-in-glove across the street, hurrying towards the underground, or perhaps a mall. Cupid watched the two as they happily chatted and passed her, fading into obscurity. For a moment, a pang of envy consumed her. She could shoot her metaphorical arrows with the aim of Athena, following the will of the Fates, but those arrows never boomeranged. Some neglected part of her longed to walk glove-in-glove.

She sighed to herself, but continued towards her destination, her muted footsteps echoing through the rarified air. Duty called.

Presently, The Lonely Heart Café appeared, complete with neon steam rising, like her breath, from an inviting, oversized cup hanging above the glass entrance door. A homeless man rested near the storefront, bundled in an overstuffed sleeping bag, only his ruddy, stubbly cheeks and bright brown eyes peering out, watching the occasional passers-by.

Cupid halted in front of the man before entering the coffee shop and crouched.

“It’s cold out here this morning, Benny. You doing okay?”

The man smiled and nodded. “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” he responded with a mild Scottish brogue. “‘Twas a cold one last night. If you don’t mind me saying so, you ought to be wearing a warmer coat and gloves.”

Truthfully, Olympus remained comfortable in all seasons, warm at the glade, slightly cooler at the amphitheatre. The cold here on the sidewalk affected Cupid, but her divinity curbed her discomfort regardless of the temperature. She held up her bare right hand and wiggled her fingers. Her fingers faded into frigid paleness.

“I’m fine, Benny.”

She reached into her coat pocket and extracted a few coins, a loonie and two toonies. Dropping them into Benny’s empty Tim Horton’s cup, they jingled before resting jumbled at the bottom.

“You spend that on food, Benny. I don’t want to see you smoking or drinking it later, right?”

Benny smiled. Despite his circumstances, he seemed cheerful and appreciative.

“No, ma’am. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”

Cupid regarded the man carefully, biting at her lower lip. If the owner of the café could evict Benny from his perch near the entrance, he would have done so long ago. Every time Benny moved, he returned within a day. Resistance is futile.

“You need anything else, Benny? A yacht? A mansion? An arrow?”

If he chose arrow, she would oblige, of course.

As always, he shook his head, a smile curling his crimson lips.

“No, ma’am, I have everything I need right here.” As if to emphasize his point, he patted the cup containing her coins, nearly knocking it over in his mirth.

She nodded and straightened back to her feet.

“You take care, Benny.”

“And you as well,” he returned, his breath mirroring hers, dissolving into the chilly air. “May today bring you love and warmth.”

Unlike previous encounters with Benny, today his extemporaneous request might tickle the Fates.

His words echoed in her mind as she turned from the homeless man and stepped towards the entrance of The Lonely Heart Café.

Twenty minutes later, Cupid ran outside wearing an apron, her legs bare, without her coat, grasping a steaming cappuccino. Shivering, she bent and handed the warm cup to Benny.

He smiled up at her from his seat on the unyielding sidewalk.

“Thank you, angel,” he murmured, lifting the rim to his lips.

Not exactly an angel, she thought. More like a demi-goddess. But Benny didn’t need to know that. Worse, her task for today hardly qualified her as an angel.

“You’re welcome, Benny. Keep warm!”

She turned and fled back into the warmth of the café.

Cupid sighed. Dealing with humanity while standing behind the counter of The Lonely Heart Café, she experienced the best and the worst. Some days, she wished her arrows weren’t metaphorical on this existential plane, or at least she could defy the Fates and cause denim-jacket-in-the-middle-of-February to fall in love with a warthog.

“What kind of idiot are you? This coffee is too fucking hot! It tastes like hot piss!”

Cupid raised her eyebrows, fighting the urge to unveil her true nature, and unleash on the denim-clad troglodyte. Idly, she wondered why this man knew what hot piss tasted like. Biting her tongue, she demurred.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make you another,” Cupid said politely. Later, she would donate the too-hot coffee to Benny, who would certainly appreciate it more than this cretin.

“Don’t make it too hot this time.” Then, under his breath: “Idiot girl.”

With a wave of her goddess fingers, Cupid could easily create chaos for Denim Dude. Warthog, meet new lover. She resisted this urge, too, with a heavy sigh. Retail exposed all kinds. Valentine’s Day revealed the crazies. If she worried about retribution for each offensive ignoramus in the world, she would drain her arrow supply in moments.

As she slid the cooler replacement coffee across the counter with infinite patience, she remarked in a stage whisper: “I don’t care what everyone else says, I doubt you’re as bad as they say.”

Before Denim Dude could splutter, Cupid dismissed him, calling for the next in line.

The next customer in line wore a business suit, his hair styled impeccably. In another life, Cupid might have found him somewhat attractive. He ordered.

“Name?”

Business Suit leaned down onto the counter, planting both hands, leering at Cupid. Valentine’s day? Crazies.

“Some people call me the space cowboy,” he replied. Without any apparent shame, he raked his eyes over her breasts.

Lord. If this continued, Cupid might not complete her primary task. The warthog might enjoy multiple partners this evening.

“I’ll write Steve,” Cupid said with a sigh.

The older man reminded Cupid of an aging Sean Connery, handsome in a stately gentleman kind of way. The woman standing beside him, her hand loosely resting in his, exuded an elegance and grace seemingly out of place with the modern surroundings. Both possessed beaming facial wrinkles as they nudged forward together. The couple contrasted sharply with the usual clientele of The Lonely Heart Café.

As their turn to order advanced, they shuffled forward together unsteadily. Cupid guessed their ages nearing mid-eighties. Cupid, of course, being immortal, never aged, but if she had, this couple epitomized her vision of a happily fulfilled life. The void of her immortality screamed at her. Both the elderly man and elegant woman smiled pleasantly as they approached.

“I’d like to order a small peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream for my lovely wife, please?”

“And for yourself?”

His eyes downcast, he glumly shook his head. “Nothing for me,” he replied.

Cupid considered enchanting the mocha, but this couple didn’t appear to require her assistance.

“You seem like a perfect couple,” Cupid remarked as she prepared the coffee. “What’s your secret?”

The older man cleared his throat. “We met here sixty years ago. It was quite different back then.” His eyes momentarily unfocused as he fondly recalled. “Like you, young lady, I worked the counter, and Jennifer wandered in to buy penny candy. I didn’t deserve this woman. She slipped me her telephone number. Why? Women didn’t do that back then. But Jennifer? She did. On February fourteenth, I called that number, invited her to dinner and the rest is history. What’s our secret?” He paused and gazed at Jennifer lovingly. “We never, ever go to bed angry. Not once,” he announced proudly. Jennifer, beside him, nodded, smiling bemusedly.

The mocha completed, Cupid slid two large cups across the counter. On both, she’d written: Happy Valentine’s with a drawn heart pierced by an arrow. The man’s eyes widened a touch.

“Miss? I only ordered one small mocha. Everything is so expensive these days.”

Cupid reached under the counter, snapping her fingers sub-audibly. A pristine red rose appeared between her fingers. She leaned forward onto her left hand. Conspiratorially, she smiled at the older gentleman.

“Your money is no good here,” she said. “Please enjoy the mochas.”

“I can’t accept this, Miss.” He fished around in his threadbare wallet. Cupid noted a distinct lack of bills, yet he extracted what looked like his last five-dollar bill and held it out to her. His lined face revealed a deep concern and embarrassment.

“Nonsense,” Cupid replied with a laugh. “You’ve restored my faith in lasting love. Sixty years! Bless. That’s worth a couple of coffees and,” she lifted her right hand from below the counter, grasping the flower by its long stem, “a rose for Jennifer.” Before he could protest further, Cupid continued. “I insist.” She politely, but determinedly, gestured the currency back towards its owner without touching it, and passed the rose to replace the money in his hand.

For a moment, Cupid expected the elder man to weep. Pure joy suffused his jowls.

“Bless you, Miss,” he murmured.

Feeling decent for the first time since delivering the hot coffee to Benny outside, Cupid grinned ear-to-ear as she watched the couple shuffle to the tables, settle, and sip at their mochas.

After Jennifer and her husband shuffled out of the café, the number of customers declined, leaving Cupid time to reflect. Despite her current task, gods and goddesses rarely interfered in the affairs of mortals. The Troy debacle resurrected in the forefront of her mind. Previous to this obsession with the Psyche woman, Venus raged after the woman who inspired a thousand ships. Jealousy consumed the goddess. Arrows targeted mortals. And, of course, the aftermath. A tiny, insignificant war. Venus’ jealousy reverberated through both the mortal and the immortal realms. Overall, regret consumed Cupid for her role in the chaos, regardless of her vigorous objections to participation.

Cupid sincerely hoped Venus knew what she was doing with this Psyche supermodel. Walter, the other participant in Venus’ scheme to alleviate Psyche’s influence, reminded Cupid of a warthog, both physically and temperamentally. While she had no moral objections to prodding this Psyche model towards love with a metaphorical arrow, falling in love with the wrong person? Wars started that way.

The entrance of a mother and child interrupted Cupid’s introspection. Perhaps in her late twenties, the mother guided a girl of five by the hand into the café. Sporting long blonde hair, the child reached to her mother’s waist, bobbing as she skipped along, peering at the world through cobalt eyes full of wonder and curiosity. Wearing her brunette hair significantly shorter than her daughter, the mother appeared tired and frazzled as she approached the counter.

“Quad shot of espresso, please,” the taller woman requested wearily.

Cupid raised her eyebrows. “Long day?”

The woman glanced down at the bouncy child still clinging to her fingers and nodded. Even while weariness crossed her brow, love for the child shone in her eyes.

“Can I order something, Mommy?”

“What do you want, honey?”

“Hot chocolate?” Blondie asked hopefully. “Can I ask the lady?”

The mother glanced at Cupid apologetically, but Cupid merely nodded encouragingly.

“Sure, honey.”

“One white hot chocolatey drink, please,” the child said, peering up expectantly at Cupid.

Cupid leaned onto her elbows against the countertop, peeking over the edge to where the child stood.

“And what name should I put on it?”

The child glanced at her mother questioningly. Mom acquiesced, indicating that the blonde child could reveal her name to this stranger.

“I’m Stacy,” the girl announced proudly. Then she glanced upward to her mother once more, tugging impatiently at their joined fingers. “Can I tell her? Please?”

Mom nodded again, casting another apologetic glance towards Cupid.

In the background, the door chime rang as another customer entered the café.

Stacy released her mother’s fingers and worked a red, folded paper from her pocket. She bit at her lower lip as she studiously unfurled the paper, revealing a construction-paper heart. Repeated folding and unfolding wore the edges nearly to raggedness.

“I have a Valentine!” Stacy grinned, holding up the heart to Cupid, inscribed with five-year-old masculine writing.

To my Valuntine, Stacy

Love Aaron

Cupid smiled. “Is Aaron your boyfriend?”

Stacy bit harder at her lip and danced around in a small circle.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m only five. Boys are icky. I’m not supposed to have a boyfriend!”

“No, I suppose you aren’t,” Cupid acknowledged. “It’s beautiful, Stacy.”

Maybe in a decade, Aaron would receive an arrow?

Cupid smiled as she turned to create the hot chocolate and espresso.

“Mommy?”

“Mhmmmm.”

“She glows.”

“Glows?”

“Blue. She glows blue, Mommy!”

Cupid glanced over. A woman stood behind Stacy’s mother, waiting to order. Stacy stood immobile beside her mother, her index finger pointing directly at Cupid.

“Honey, it’s impolite to point, right?”

Stacy reluctantly lowered her hand to brush her upper thighs, swinging back and forth.

“But, she glows! She’s an angel!”

For the second time today, Cupid thought: not an angel, a demi-goddess. Sometimes children and the mentally imbalanced could sense her true nature.

Stacy’s mother cast another apologetic grimace towards Cupid.