Cupid

Oliver had a cupid tattooed on his arm. The overall design was not too embellished but it was enough to steal the hearts of those with cherubic sensibilities. He would grow to hide it under a long sleeve to cover the embarrassing marking he chose to get when he was eighteen. Now that he was in his mid-twenties, there were times when he would show it off like the time he went to a pub with a couple of his old friends. He thought the tattoo deserved to be out for its ethereal quality whenever he got the chance to display it. He had the idea that he was busy chasing his dreams and it was all due to the painful truths of destiny. 

At the pub, Oliver and his friends were talking about school, work, and the women they were seeing. At the time, Oliver was not seeing anybody. It was a Sunday night and he was not working that day. He remembered when he used to attend mass every morning with his mother. Now that he was older, he lost touch with his educational background in Catholicism, however when it came to university he had been dating several lovers for every subject that was being taught to him. Most of the lovers he was in love with. He was conservative about dating up until he learned how to drink beer. Whenever he went out with his friends, they would not believe that he was still single. They would try pairing him with some of their girlfriends’ single friends. They knew there was a charm to Oliver that none of them really had. He was an autonomous man and never really smiling. As they made plans for work and marriage, Oliver was keen on writing his first novel. They called him “Olli.” When was he going to settle down? When was he finally going to land the writing job? When was he going to have a stable job, period? They fed him the questions Oliver was never all too excited to answer.  

That evening, they decided they were going to order some appetizers. All of a sudden, they met some damsels at the bar. The women were chatting amongst themselves when they also noticed that Oliver was a part of the group of guys. For some reason, he stood out the most amongst them, probably because of his tattoo. They were dressed rather formally, like they just stepped out of an office wear magazine. One of the women spoke to him and began talking about the weather. Any normal conversation would start that way, he thought. The woman with the long hair told him she was working as a journalist at the same institution he tried applying to as well. He congratulated her presence and said he was also interested in the same press she was working at. At a certain point in his educational career, he found out through one of his professors an array of opportunities that he would later not make the cut. He humbly stated that he began work at a bookstore instead. The woman said that maybe if she should meet with him again sometime, she could refer him to the press she worked at. Her name was Eleanor. She was not from the same city he was, but she knew about all the same places he was familiar with. They had that to talk about for a bit before Oliver decided it was time for him to leave. Oliver put on his jacket which covered his tattooed arm. He decided that he wanted to leave. Eleanor saluted him from across the bar. She looked eager to talk with him some more. The glimmering glasses reflected in the globes of her eyes. He then thought that Eleanor belonged to a different world from his own. She was a gorgeous woman with dreams of her own.  

“Are you working tonight?” he asked her. 

She said she was working on an article for her magazine. 

“It was nice meeting you, but I have to go now,” he replied. 

“Goodbye then,” she said. 

All of a sudden, Oliver’s arm began to sting where his tattoo was. He did not regret getting the tattoo but it was all the more painful meeting random women who were interested in its meaning. Maybe he was a lover, or he wanted it to mean something that spoke to a Renaissance painting. He did admire those paintings by Michelangelo or Leonardo DaVinci, like something taken off the ancient walls of Italy. Those aesthetics spoke to him. Instead, he got the cherub with the bow and arrow because he was more superficial than he had hoped. 

He was writing. That never stopped him from writing as much as he did. In his imagination, he aspired for something mundane and the cupid was a story waiting to be written. He knew she did not just want to chat about cherubs and paintings of the Sistine chapel, but about work and things in the quotidian of her reality. He was also interested in those things but he was not a journalist. He told her he was trying to write a book himself.  

“Wait,” Eleanor said, “Don’t you want to talk some more?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

“No, don’t!” the cupid shouted at him. 

What was that? Oliver thought. He did not hear it from the crowd of patrons at the bar. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked. 

Eleanor was perplexed at what Oliver just asked. 

“Nothing,” she answered. 

Oliver was going home that night having a little too much to drink, he always thought. Maybe if he was far enough away from Eleanor, he would not hear the voice anymore. It was like a voice inside his head begging him to type something great already. 

“Go home,” it said again. 

Oliver could not believe he heard the voice again. He finally bid Eleanor farewell and was ready to send himself back home, or so he believed. As far as he was concerned he was hearing voices. When he turned around, he saw one of his best friends laughing profusely. The voice was in fact just his best friend messing with him.