Skeptics & Angels

“Welcome to The Sugar Crush! Where every sweet moment begins with a sprinkle of magic and a hunger for love. Please seat yourselves.”

Angel wipes his hands on his pink pinstripe vest as he watches the shy couple pick a table near the front of the restaurant. “That’s the twelfth match in the last hour.”

The coworker nearest to him shrugs, her cotton candy curls bouncing. “It’s February, Angel. It’s always busy this time of year. Love is in the air.”

Angel pretends to sniff. “Smells like desperation to me.” He nods towards the stack of menus. “You got this table?”

She rolls her eyes, but grabs two anyway. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get this one. You ought to check on your skeptic, though.” Her eyes flicker pointedly to the corner of the room where a man, impeccably dressed, sits alone in his booth. “Poor guy.”

Angel does feel a little bad for him. He’d come in nearly an hour ago and seated himself in the furthest booth, back to the door, to await his match. After twenty minutes, it became clear to Angel that this man had been stood up but still, he waited. Surprising, given the man’s skeptical demeanor. Angel knows the type. 

Angel grabs his masterpiece and approaches the table. “Here.” 

The man slides the drink away, but Angel insists, pushing it back toward him. “It’s on the house.”

Still, he doesn’t reach for it. 

Angel nearly rolls his eyes. “It’s just a cocktail, hon. My own invention, call it the Lovebug.”

The man—Mr. Skeptic, he decides to call him—huffs. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Yeah, you’ve been waiting a while, haven’t you?” Mr. Skeptic glares and Angel holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m not saying anything ‘bout it. Just that I admire your individualism. You didn’t strike me as the waiting type.”

Mr. Skeptic crosses his arms, grumbling, “I lost a bet to my sister. She’s the one who put my name into Cupid’s Matchmaking Service. I was just told to be here on time and to wait an hour before going home alone.”

“Ah, a blind date,” Angel hums, then checks the clock behind him. “Well, you’ve got at least another fifteen minutes. I’ll join ya.” Without waiting for permission, Angel slides into the booth. 

“You really don’t have to.”

“Just doin’ my job: making sure every match has a comfortable experience,” Angel winks. He grabs the Lovebug and takes a sip. “I’m Angel.”

Mr. Skeptic from, eyes darting to the server behind the counter. “I thought her name was Angel.”

“It is. We’re all Angel.”

“Oh. Well, then I’m…” he trails off, as if unsure how much he should reveal. Eventually, his shoulders slump. “I’m cynical, I suppose.”

“I know. I can smell it on you.”

The man looks startled. “You—”

“I’ll call you Cyn.” Angel offers his drink and Cyn takes it gratefully. 

When he’s drained half of the glass, he removes himself long enough to ask, “You can smell it?”

“It’s a cherub thing. All servers of The Sugar Crush are cherubs: extensions of Cupid. Not quite important enough to get a weapon and almighty power but it has its perks.”

Before the other man can respond, Angel leans in conspiratorially, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You know, Cyn, bein’ a cynic isn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it can be quite charming in its own way. But if you’re here looking for love, a little bit of optimism and confidence might go a long way.”

“And what would you suggest, Angel? A change in attitude? A new approach to this charade?”

“Exactly! You’ve got potential, Cyn, I can sense it. All you need is a little practice and a few pointers and you’ll be drawin’ people in, head over heels. So let’s try it.”

He chuckles wryly. “I don’t know about all that, Angel.”

“C’mon,” Angel drawls, flashing a playful grin, “it’ll be easy.”

Cyn lets out a huff, but there’s a hint of amusement behind it. “Easy for you to say,” he retorts, before his expression shifts to one of curiosity. “Wait. Are you single?”

Angel’s eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. “You sneaky little thing. Are you makin’ moves on me already?”

Cyn stammer’s, clearly flustered. “What? No. I—”

Angel chuckles, sensing Cyn’s discomfort. “Good. Because as flattered as I am, you came off a little strong.”

“No.” Cyn rolls his eyes, although Angel could tell there was no real anger behind them. “I just mean if you’re a cherub or an assistant of Cupid’s or whatever then you must’ve already found your perfect match. You don’t have to go through all these interviews and quizzes and dates. It’s exhausting, you know.”

Angel’s smile falters slightly. “So I’ve heard.”

Cyn’s voice wavers, his words a hesitant admission. “I mean, it’s just… putting yourself out there is daunting. There’s a sea of options which is, at the very least, overwhelming. And if a match doesn’t work out… it can be discouraging. But you probably don’t get that, huh? Being a cherub, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of unsuccessful matches, but I bet Cupid found your soulmate on the first try.”

Angel’s chuckle is soft, tinged with a hint of melancholy. “Quite the opposite, actually. We’re not permitted to use any of Cupid’s Matchmaking Services to try to find true love and are highly discouraged from looking on our own. It’s not just for work purposes; it’s also about reputation. If Angels went around getting their hearts broken, or getting unsuccessful matches, it might be bad for business.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize…” Cyn’s voice trails off, a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. “That sounds… lonely.”

As the weight of Cyn’s words hangs in the air, his expression softens with understanding. Suddenly, the bustling restaurant around them seems to fade into the background, leaving only the two of them lost in a moment of shared vulnerability where neither man feels rushed to fill the gap of silence.

Angel clears his throat and dons an easy-going smile. “You mentioned you had a sister earlier, yeah? Tell me about your family.”

Cyn blinks, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “Uh, yeah,” he replies, his voice a little rough. “I have a sister, Sophia. She’s always been the hopeless romantic of the family.”

“Well, every family needs one. So, she set you up, huh?”

Cyn shrugs. “She’s got her own agenda. I’ve only used Cupid’s Matchmaking Services once.”

“And?”

“Got my heart broken and vowed to never use it again.”

“Ah, a classic case of once bitten, twice shy,” Angel remarks with a knowing smile. 

“Exactly,” Cyn confirms, a wistful expression crossing his features. “There’s something about the whole process that feels too calculated and clinical. I don’t know. Jumping through hoops to find someone who’s mathematically compatible just doesn’t sit right with me. And anyway, I always pictured meeting someone naturally, you know? By dropping my books or spilling coffee on them or something cheesy like that.”

“Oh, who’s the hopeless romantic now?”

Cyn rolls his eyes with a grin. “Touché, Angel.” He finishes the cocktail with a single swig and leaves the empty glass at the edge of the table, a silent cue. Angel, though aware that he’s the one supposed to clear it away, feels an odd reluctance to get up from their conversation and take it to the kitchen in the back. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you have a family? Anyone you left behind?”

“Nah,” Angel shrugs. He hopes the gesture looks more nonchalant than it feels. “No siblings, no parents. I grew up in an orphanage. Never did well in school. Never had any ambitions or found any passions. That’s why this job was perfect, at the time. When you become a cherub, you have to give everything up—but I had nothing to begin with.”

Cyn stays quiet, but Angel can practically hear him thinking, ‘That sounds… lonely.’

And maybe he is lonely. Maybe they both are. 

Angel struggles to strike up another thread of conversation through this unsettling realization. His hands, now without a drink to keep them busy, fidget with a fraying thread on the tablecloth. When his eyes flicker up, they find a curious but expectant expression. Cyn must have asked him something. 

“Sorry?”

One corner of Cyn’s mouth lifts. “I asked ‘When did you know it was perfect?’ When did you decide to give your everything-but-nothing up?”

“In retrospect, it seems so small and silly. I was twenty, I think. Just another Nobody, working part-time and eating lunch in my car on my break. I watched two strangers run into each other in the park across the street. It was just a chance encounter amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life but it felt like something from a movie. There was no grand gesture but something clicked. And instead of exchanging apologies and rushing back to their respected routines, they took a chance. They sat down on a cold park bench and talked like they’d known each other forever, completely immersed in each other’s company.” Angel’s voice is soft, filled with nostalgia. “I’ve never been in love but watching them connect is the closest I think I’ve ever been. I watched them for probably an hour.”

“Creep.”

“I know right?” Angel beams as Cyn chuckles, tipping his head back. “I can’t even explain it exactly. They were just so damn happy and open. Their connection was like, you know? The whole thing just felt—” He pauses, unable to grasp any single word to capture the essence of that memory.

“Real?” Cyn offers.

Angel nods. “Yeah. It was like, totally natural. Without all the bells and whistles or quizzes and interviews, like you were saying. Sometimes, we make things too complicated. Like love matches. Or menus.” He grabs a menu from the table, waving it around for emphasis. “There’s so many damn choices, it’s almost overwhelming. Some people dig the variety of Neapolitan ice cream, others crave the thrill of Rocky Road, but me? I’ve always loved vanilla. Keep it simple.”

“Simple is good,” Cyn agrees, taking the menu and pretending to peruse it. “Just like a good cup of coffee. You don’t need all those fancy syrups and toppings. Sometimes, black coffee is all you need to start your day right.”

“Well, now you’re crossing a line.”

Cyn laughs, head thrown back.

“Henry?”

Both men turn towards the new voice. A woman, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, stands at the edge of the booth, dripping wet. 

Cyn’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Yes?”

“Oh, good,” the woman gushes in an English accent. “I was worried you had left already. I’m so terribly sorry I’m late, I decided to walk here from work instead of driving but then I got caught in a downpour without an umbrella and had to take shelter until it passed and—” Her posture suddenly straightens, noticing for the first time that Henry isn’t alone. “Am I interrupting?”

Angel jumps from his seat like it’s caught fire. “Not at all, Hon. I was just keeping him company while he waited for you. Here, let me take your coat.”

“Thank you,” she chirps, wincing slightly as she hands over the sopping fabric. “Apologies for the mess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Angel waves her off. “Have a look at the menu and I’ll be right back.”

Angel feels like he can’t escape fast enough, though he senses Cyn’s eyes on him even behind the kitchen’s doors. In the quieter atmosphere of the kitchen, Angel takes a deep breath. He’s not sure why he’s so unsettled by the woman’s presence. Maybe it’s just because he and Cyn—no, Henry—didn’t get to finish their conversation.

Henry. 

Now that Angel thinks about it, he really does look like a Henry. 

It takes six minutes and twenty-one seconds to gather the courage to return to their table. His server-smile feels plastered on his face like a coat of paint. As he takes their orders, Henry furrows his brows in a silent question. Angel pretends he doesn’t notice or understand. 

“Perfect, I’ll get these in the kitchen for you.”

When the food is ready, he asks another Angel to deliver it while he mixes another cocktail. He knows he’s acting cowardly but his racing heart scares him. He feels dizzy and flushed and has to pop open the first couple buttons of his shirt to cool down. For a while, he busies himself with kitchen duties—washing dishes, expediting orders, refilling garnish trays—until he eventually gets chased away by Mama Angel. 

She snaps, “Don’t you have a match to worry over?”

Yes. And he’s worrying about it plenty. 

He spies on Henry’s table through the small circular windows on the kitchen doors. Conversation flows easily between them, though Angel can’t make out their words, and suddenly he feels like he’s not watching this couple carefully brought together by Matchmakers, but the couple from the park. The one that made him believe in love, despite never having experienced it himself. 

He turns away. 

As the restaurant’s day comes to a close, so too does their date. Angel heads to the back where all files on matches are kept organized in pink folders. As per tradition, he loads a red-frosted, Cupid-blessed cookie onto a gold, Cupid-blessed plate and carries it with the utmost care to Henry’s table. 

“Here you are. This is our SoulPlate dish: a treat blessed by Cupid himself. As you take a bite, you may experience an enhanced mood or some stimulation of your senses. Most people taste one dominant flavor and it’s believed that if you both experience the same one then it’s a sign from the heavens of perfect compatibility. It’s not to be taken definitively, but rather as a delightful aid in your quest to discover true love. Thank you and may you both have a wonderful night.”

With a slight bow, Angel excuses himself. Behind kitchen doors, he wills his hands to stop shaking as they open the pink folder. On one side, summarizations from interviews and percentage charts from tests fill the page. He forces his eyes to the bottom where he reads “Compatibility: 78% Match.”

He swallows hard. 

On the other side of the folder, a single card about the size of a sticky note prompts “Match Success: Circle YES or NO.”

Angel drags his eyes up to the window just in time for Henry to take his first bite. Emma does the same a moment later and everything seems to fall silent as they chew. When Henry finally reveals whichever flavor he experiences, Angel can’t decipher it. But, it turns out, he doesn’t need to. 

As if in slow motion, they slide from the booth and embrace each other in a tight hug. With every step the couple takes towards the front door, Angel’s heart sinks, but he can’t look away until they’re both gone. Angel circles YES.

The folder gets tucked away into a pile with the rest of the day’s successful matches. Angel decides he’ll clean off Henry’s table and head home early. 

Filled with determination, Angel swings through the kitchen doors only to come up short. Henry waits patiently at the front counter. Angel moves forward on instinct, his feet carrying him forward before his mind catches up.

“Henry,” he greets with a smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Instead of answering, the man pulls out a wadded up napkin from his pocket and displays it. Angel looks from the wad to his eyes, which are filled with a foreign decisiveness. When Angel makes no move to grab the trash, Henry peels back layers of napkin to reveal part of a red-frosted, Cupid-blessed cookie. 

Angel’s breath catches. 

Steady hands break the chunk in two and offer one. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Angel takes the piece offered. 

“You want me to…?”

“Taste it.”

Simultaneously, they finish the cookie. For a moment, nothing happens and in the next, he’s overcome by a symphony of flavors, none more prominent than the next. There’s a subtle sweetness that lingers throughout it all, like honey and sunshine, mingling with the warmth of cinnamon and the richness of chocolate. Each chew is a revelation, a journey through a world of taste and sensation. With each swallow, a blanket of euphoria washes over him, like he’s been wrapped in a cozy blanket on a chilly night. It’s more than just the taste—it’s a feeling of connection, of being drawn closer to something—or someone. 

And all the while, Henry’s eyes never stray from his. When he finally swallows, he can only muster up one word to describe it. “Vanilla.”

Henry smiles softly and agrees, “Vanilla.”

Angel can’t help but nod in the direction of the front doors. “She would’ve been good for you.”

“Maybe. But I think you’ll be better.”

A flush creeps up Angel’s face at his certainty. “I have no way to know. I can’t check, remember?”

“Good.” His grin widens and he holds out a hand. “I’m Henry.”

Shyly, Angel takes it, his own server-smile falling away to be replaced with something beaming and genuine. “I’m Anthony.”