Every February, Cupid has another gig.
Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)
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Just a quarter of an inch across and I’d have been pulling up daisies. Eros is packing some serious heat these days, a fact to which the hole in my living room wall attests. I’m standing here with two fingers inserted, noting the rough edges. Not quite as smooth as one would expect, yet so typical of a god really. Always demanding more than they can give. Always getting more than they deserve. Well, not from me. I refuse to pay him any attention. I withdraw to the bathroom to wash the white residue off my hands.
My mind drifts back to when we were fledglings. All Eros had in those days was a dinky little slingshot from which to fire his pixie skulls. We’d fossick for their wingless remains at the foot of the royal mosaics at Latium, right there on the beach alongside the unsuspecting sunbathers who would soon become our targets. Eros would rattle off a round or two as I egged him on and then, grin faced, we’d retreat to the rock pools before they could track our trajectory.
He was a brat and I was a chit, and there was a time when I would have sworn that we were made for each other. Not any more though. Eros is a fucking anal fissure and I’m righteously pissed off. That tends to happen when your heart has been so carelessly stomped on. For someone who prides himself on being the ultimate matchmaking machine, Eros sure was sucky at keeping our own relationship off of life support.
That hole. It’s bigger than it has any right to be. What the hell is he using? More than pixie skulls, that’s for goddamn sure. By junior high, he’d graduated to a compound crossbow with customised arrows sporting a filigree, heart-shaped tip motif. Who knows what Eros has moved on to since then? A Gustav Gun perhaps? With nuke sized dildos? No. The hole is big, but not that big.
Whichever way I choose to look at it, it’s obvious he wants me back. Eros has always been one to big things up, to over compensate in his declarations of love. Ugh. I really want to hate the bastard. Some days, I even succeed.
by TONY SINGLE
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