Cupidity

He wasn’t all that much, which was exactly what was so striking about him.

Myrefall was full of characters, from your run-of-the-mill drunk like Sean to your ‘high class’ cocaine addict like Jacey. Everyone had a scar with a story to tell, a tattoo with a meaning to share, or a face only a mother could love. No two people fit into the same group of society, and no two people got along without the aid of a social lubricant of the kind Laughing Pinnacle supplied.

So it was strange to see, an average young guy of the background character variety. The extra, the normal. Sipping a low potency beer over a chat with Jamie. His gaze cool, calculating. His dark hair mussed towards bedtime and his clothes pleated towards exaggeration for their style. Resting casually against the wall. Flicking a cigarette nonchalantly beside the ‘No Smoking’ sign.

Maybe five foot seven, maybe five foot eight, he was a white guy with a splash of color to high chiseled cheekbones and a sly smile quirked to one side. His black eyes were magnified by the glasses, two ebony abysses articulated by flecks of silver. Within them seemed to flash fires, even infernos. As though the buzz burning down his esophagus was in fact stoking some great blaze within.

Willow was in the hypnotic whirl of customer service by now. Taking orders. Mixing drinks. Waiting tables. Washing dishes. Orders. Drinks. Tables. Dishes. Repeat. Over and over. Her ankles starting to throb with the reminder of their extension and her hips swaying with less fervor than they had upon arrival. And yet. She could feel it. Could feel him. Those eyes. That soul. This fire of lustful hatred burning holes through the back of her head.

It was kind of starting to piss her off.

Working any service industry, you were bound to bear the stares of beady eyed customers sniffing disdainfully at you like pampered dogs accustomed to domination. You were bound to get the cat calls, the curse outs, the angry slurs and the happy go lucky jeers.

But you didn’t generally suffer from a vague paranoia steadily gnawing away at your heart. You didn’t usually feel as though a chain were slithering steadily as a snake would around your neck, or like your mere existence were an affront to the human species as a whole.

Usually, you just sort of felt like a put upon celebrity with too many paparazzi and not enough spy gear.

Or a teacher with all the answers to the wrong questions.

However, as Jamie informed this interloping stranger that smoking was an outdoor activity generally entrusted to the ashtray out front, Willow was becoming increasingly terrified that she had offended this man somehow. Which was ridiculous. Absurd. Absolutely unwarranted and certainly most uncalled for. How does one offend somebody to whom they have never even spoken? Never exchanged greetings with nor witnessed in passerby’s coincidence?

Willow was not a person susceptible to nerves. Obviously. One does not bolt from their abode clad in practical underwear if they are prone to the crippling shyness of a ground squirrel. Willow didn’t take anybody’s shit either, she didn’t stand by if customers attempted to berate her nor did she take the crap doled out like Hanukah presents daily from the hands of blue balled patrons.

If someone upset her she ascertained their exit. And if someone threatened her she made them regret it. She didn’t need a voice to have an ego. Quite the opposite, her ego was her voice.

So when this man began to glide. Practically hover. Seemed to float on an uncanny grace of supernatural wisdom akin to that her mother had displayed… And made his direction clear. His approach evident. His intent exemplified from beyond the mirrors made blue by the lights reflected in those glasses…

Willow was rather perturbed to find a shiver coursing up the length of her spine. Goosebumps invading the concealment of her tattoos and a poignant sort of nausea rising anxiety in the back of her throat.

“Hello, my name is Sable.” The man offered his hand, pocketing the crushed cigarette like a spent chap stick or a hankie.

Willow ignored the hand, giving the whole of her attention to the man securing the seat beside ‘Sable.’ An older guy with the gruff inflection of a blue collared worker hitting the bar after a long week at the shop. Accepting his smile with a return of her own and filling his mug to the brim with a froth of alcoholic zeal. She didn’t like this Sable guy. This law breaking, casual motherfucker with the rumpled jeans and the too perfect flannel.

Flannel! Except his was yellow and green… which really wasn’t suiting his color palate and reflected a sort of reptilian aura in his features. Almost like his lineage were not that of Adam and Eve, but rather the serpent and a humanoid body snatcher from outer space. He was giving her the creeps. But his politeness and cool collected attitude left his departure unwarranted.

He had put out the cigarette after all…

“So tell me,” Sable gestured slightly to her myriad of body art, “How does a sweetheart like you working a job like this afford to be adorned so beautifully?”

Interesting choice of words…

My mom had a bad sense of humor and a worse case of schizophrenia. But even if you didn’t give me the creeps, my reply to you is about as possible as pigs flying and the stars falling.

“Well pigs do fly and stars fall every night…” Sable trailed off, nibbling the outer rim of his beer intently, “So if your looks are a gift, did the same Santa Claus bestow that necklace upon you?”

Willow slammed the cup she was polishing down abruptly, staring at Sable from the mirror above the sink. His eyes were glued to hers. His teeth the minimal of a smile carnal in its origin. Quirky, slightly enticing she had to admit. He was smirking at her the way a man generally smirks when he knows he’s hit a button. It’s a grin far more suitable to the bedroom than the barroom, but an interesting expression nonetheless.

Who the hell was this guy?

“Schizophrenics never cease to fascinate me.” Sable stated pointedly. His every word punctuated by a knowing factuality. As though he were reading. Reciting from the pages of a book during an English lesson from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, “Especially those with delusions of grandeur. To think, a lowly human being could come up with such concepts as having been born the new Jesus Christ. The devil himself, a fallen angel of the Heavens. Gets ya wondering, you know? If there’s more to the brain than the firing of neurons.”

Willow whirled on him, are you reading my mind?!

“Well of course, what sort of demon would I be if I wasn’t?”

Catching Jamie’s eye, Willow gestured to Sable and jerked her thumb backwards. Toward the door. An obvious signal for him to be booted out. Discarded. His privilege to drink revoked by the right to refuse service. Their legality of the state trumping his right of customer satisfaction.

Fucking lunatic.

Yeah…

That’s pretty much when shit hit the fan.