Cupid’s Just a Fat Man with Wings by Terveen Gill

I didn’t want to go down this alley.

An invite to a costume party – dress as you like – no theme or restrictions.

Parties aren’t for me, a man in his thirties who thinks staying up after nine is a party in itself.

But my girlfriend is a human sunflower always turning towards the sun and all things bright.

‘This will be fun, honey.’

These were her exact words. Nothing more or less.

‘Sure. Anything for you, sweety.’

When no isn’t an option, then make the yes sound like the grandest message of love.

And so we went.

She as Cleopatra. I as Ernest Hemingway.

Everyone at the party complimented her choice, no one recognized who I was.

I thought the glasses, hat and scruffy beard would be a dead giveaway.

Even when I revealed who I was, many just said – who the hell is that?

Then you wonder why I sleep at nine. The world is a boring place lacking intellectual stimulation.

She and I part ways at the salad counter. She’s not into greens, I have a food allergy that strictly limits my diet. That’s when I hear him behind me, his voice heavy with liquor.

‘You two have chemistry. But take things slow. I know a winner when I see one.’

I turn but in an inconspicuous way. Yoda from Star Wars and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark are walking away hand-in-hand giggling like naughty school children.

Ha! I bet that won’t last the night.

The voice then catches me by surprise, slurring by my side.

‘Who should I set you up with?’

I grant him a quick glance.

‘Beg your pardon?’

He ignores my interjection.

‘How about that one?’

He’s pointing his ridiculous arrow at Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.

I try to make his life easier –

‘I’m already taken.’

– and point out Cleopatra.

He laughs, a sarcastic one, and his belly shakes like a mound of jelly.

‘She’s out of your league, old man.’

It’s my costume, not me, that represents an old man. How dare he insinuate my age from that.

‘Leave me alone.’

Before I can walk away, he dashes in front of me, his white wings bobbing behind him. I can’t ignore what he’s wearing.

‘Is that a diaper?’

He pokes me with his arrow and utters the foulest remark.

‘No. It’s your granny’s underwear.’

I’m appalled and outraged. No one can talk about my nana so disgracefully. I grab his bow and arrow and break them over my knee. Then I grab his wings and tear them off his back, throw them on the ground and stomp on them violently.

‘Have you lost your mind?’

I look up to find her, Cleopatra, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. She only knows what she sees. As I begin explaining, the drunkard begins to wail.

‘There’s no place for love in this world!’

Her tender gaze offers him sympathy.

‘Apologize to Cupid right now!’

I laugh, not at him or her, but at my stupidity. Never react when angry or offended. Yet I do it again.

‘Are you serious?! All hail Cleopatra – the queen of Taco Bell!’

It was her part-time job while she finished her doctoral thesis. She walks away disgusted, and I dig my grave even deeper.

‘Love is a huge lump of shit! And Cupid’s just a fat man with wings!’

The son of a gun kicks me hard in the…