Cupid's Contract

Keep Calm and Consort...

"Sorry?"

Mystery man — Cupid — looked back at her blankly.

"You're Cupid. Cupid who, exactly?"

"You know. Cupid Cupid... That Cupid!" He made a motion with his arms, flapping them clumsily at his sides, before he shoved his hands into his pockets, as if mortified by the association.

Eve suddenly felt quite dizzy and, stumbling toward the dusty armchair, sat down heavily. As the room righted itself she looked back up at the Cupid-man who was somehow in her family's attic. He had no wings and wore no diaper, and at no point did she spot an archery kit in his vicinity. He wore a slim fitted black suit that looked at least as expensive as her car, if not more. Though retrospectively, that was hardly a challenge. The odds of him hiding his bow-and-arrow underneath the made-to-measure blazer were small. His shoes were freshly buffed and perhaps, if he didn't murder her, she would check if she could see her reflection in them. Underneath the jacket he wore a simple white shirt and a silky red tie. He did not look like someone who could go toe-to-toe with Katniss Everdeen. Perhaps Tom Ford, but that was an entirely different scenario.

Cupid cleared his throat once again, this time quite loudly, and she quickly directed her eyes to his face. At some point during her observation her hand had found a half-full wine glass and she slurped loudly from it as she evaluated her situation.

The man didn't necessarily look insane. Yes, he seemed to believe he was Cupid, but he dressed like a fashionable insane person. Though maybe that was part of his evil plan? His face seemed innocent enough, if a little irritated at her. His blonde hair was parted to the left and a little bit on the fluffy side. His eyes were the bluest blue she had ever seen, like one of those bonbons her grandfather used to carry in his pockets. Unnaturally blue. Maybe even coloured-contacts-blue? Were they allowed contacts in insane asylums? Surely not. Though maybe it was less of a safety hazard than glasses... FOCUS, EVE. She cocked her head to the side as she took in his generously sized cheeks. Though he seemed relatively fit for a man, his cheeks were plump enough to pinch, with a rosy glow that made Eve automatically fond of him, though she knew he was probably a crack addict. Or, at the very least, under the influence of some pretty potent drugs. She would reserve her judgement on which particular narcotic when she got a good look at his teeth.

All in all, he appeared as if he was stable enough to wash himself daily and in her current state she was no match for a man who had recently escaped from the local asylum. She probably wasn't even sober enough to brush her teeth, never mind battle a potential Hunger-Games tribute. Best to distract him until her family sobered up and scared him off with a tarot card reading and a pitcher of sangria or, more likely, the authorities tracked him down.

"Cupid... what? Have you a last name?"

He mumbled unintelligibly.

"Pardon?" Blimey, if she said that word one more time today, they'd put it on her gravestone.

"It's O'Brien. Cupid O'Brien, all right? Don't start laughing now."

She had just slurped obnoxiously from her glass, and had to fight not to spit the mouthful across the room. She was only partially successful and was forced to resort to mopping at the small dribble down her chin with her already stained sleeve.

"Oh... you don't seem very Irish... Are angels Irish? I thought that was leprechauns..." She smiled sincerely at him, the effect marred by her very purple wine-teeth.

"I'm not an angel. I'm a cherub. Anyway, that isn't the point, I'm here to talk business, not semantics." His cheeks had taken on a deep red flush that erased his childish aura and made it quite clear he was on his last nerve.