1 โข | Cupid's A Pyro
A bellโs chime sounds out into the quiet world, signaling the start of my fight. Only Iโm not fighting someone, it's a battle against the February winter. I step out into the cold, breath fanning in front of me in a frosty puff. Teeth clattering like a dropped plastic cup from the drastic temperature change. I'm hit by an arctic blast of air that laps at my reddening cheeks, icy pins speckle across my skin like freckles. A shudder convulses through my body as the freezing air sneaks its way beneath the hemline of my coat. Reaching up, I secure my scarf over my nose to ward off some of the cold.
To generate warmth, I bounce on my toes, rummaging around my purse for the keys to Little Bud's. Shoving aside loads of unnecessary stuff that's found permanent residence in my bag over the years.
Aha, there they are!
Fumbling, I tried to insert the key into the lock with my gloved hand. The other keys on my ring clank against the metal plate on the door. Finally, after some trial and error, I fit the key into the jagged slot. The deadbolt engages with a snick, and after one last reassuring wiggle of the doorknob, I leave.
My neighboring shop ownerโs lips tighten with concern when she sees me pass by. When she gestures for me to come inside, I smile reassuringly, mouthing that I'm fine to diminish her worries.
A chilly gust of wind sweeps over me when I round the corner of our shops and strands of hair lift off my numbing cheeks. My arms tighten around myself as I follow the wall of English ivy that climbs the side wall of the cute, little brick building. The cold bit at me. Burrowing deeper into my scarf, I hurried on, dreaming of a comforting cup of hot chocolate.
I crossed the street toward the park; there's a shortcut through here to Lou's diner. You just have to trudge through some bushes, but they'll create a nice wind block.
So it's worth it.
My feet crunch into yesterday's fallen snow, leaving a trail of foot indentations behind me, and I hum a cheery tune into the fabric of my scarf. My eyes drift from the path in front of me, traveling over to the dormant mulberry that I harvest sweet berries from in the spring. A fond smile twists my lips as I think of all the memories my grandmother and I created next to that tree.
The first true shift in the weather from freezing to pleasant, we used to find ourselves sprawled across a checkered blanket beneath budding leaves. Our gaze would trail over the sky, seeking the funniest cloud shapes, or ones that were heart-shaped.
She used to say that if you found a heart-shaped cloud on Valentine's Day, you'd meet your soulmate.
I never believed her.
I thought it was wistful thinking of a helpless romantic who hadn't found the right person to spend the rest of her life with.
She dreamed of different men riding in on a white horse, or maybe driving some fancy car to come sweep her off her feet.
It was her wish upon every shooting star.
Coin in a fountain, and birthday candles to be carted off to her make-believe forever.
I found her daydreaming about those make believe men more times than I can remember.
To this day, it's a wistful thought-that despite how far-fetched it seems-lives on in my heart. It's heartwarming to think that a heart found in the clouds could lead to you finding the other half of your soul.
It's comforting, knowing that there's someone out there who could understand you completely. It makes me feel a little less lonely.
Especially since the passing of my grandmother.
I've looked for hearts in the sky every Valentine's Day since her passing; it makes me feel closer to her.
Abandoned on my grandmother's doorstep, step at five by my parents, and after countless heartbreaks from boys I was using to fill a void in myself, it's surprising I still even believe in the silly notion of soulmates. Growing up with a hopeless romantic for a grandmother made it impossible to be clinical regarding matters of the heart.
I had her and the romance movies she forced me to sit and watch with her every weekend to thank for my own dreams of true love.
Also, flowers.
There's this older gentleman, Mr. Morgan, who has been coming to buy flowers for his wife. Rain or shine, since before I even inherited Little Bud's from my grandmother. He shows up every Sunday after attending the nine a.m. church service, and buys a bouquet of yellow daffodils for his wife.
He's been buying the same flower for her since the day he proposed to his wife in a field of daffodils in nineteen seventy-two when he was eighteen.
Sadly, last spring, on her way home, a drunk driver collided with her car; she suffered multiple broken bones and a brain injury. The doctors induced a coma while the swelling of her brain went down, and now they don't think she'll wake.
Mr. Morgan spends every spare second at her side.
I wish someday to have a husband who treats me the way Mr. Morgan treats his wife; he leaves a fresh bouquet of daffodils by her bedside, always in her line of sight. So if she regains consciousness, proof that he will wait an eternity for the day she opens her eyes again will be right there.
He loves her so much and for as long as he lives, his wife will receive flowers.
If that's not the purest form of love, I don't know what is.
Puffs of smoke catch my attention, drawing my gaze to the right just as I'm about to step into the small path hidden by bushes. Brows furrowing, my nose twitches at a familiar scent, and I half-turn toward the smoke.
I swear there's a faint, sweet fragrance lingering in the air.
It smells a lot like... Roses.
There are no roses bushes in the park vicinity, besides even if there were. They wouldn't be blooming right now, besides you have to be close to scent roses. Their fragrance is subtle, but still they have a pleasant floral smell.
I'm probably going to regret this, because it could be some sick and depraved trap to murder someone on Valentine's Day, but I backtrack. I follow the dark whiffs of smoke, and the closer I get to where they appear to be coming from, the stronger the smell of roses becomes.
Subtlety, I peek around a tree, resting my gloved palm on the rough bark.
A guy stands tall, unaffected by the elements, thick, glossy waves brushing across his broad shoulders, clad in black leather when he tilts his head. His hand-that rests against a muscular thigh being hugged by dark jeans-holds a single rose; he rolls the stem between two fingers.
A single petal flutters to the snow, the vivid red a stark contrast against the blanket of white.
"Do you plan to hide behind that tree for the duration of today?โ His voice is a seductive purr, demanding attention. โI imagine a guy burning roses isn't the most unusual thing taking place today."
I jump with a startled squeal; the back of my heel catches on a hidden root. My arms wave around, attempting to regain my footing, and I reach out for the tree, narrowly missing the trunk. Eyes widening comically, I fall to the side, face-planting into a drifted pile of snow.
"Ha, ha, ha!" The guy laughs.
This is so embarrassing. When have I ever been clumsy?
I lift my head, spitting out a mouthful of cold sludge as my cheeks flush as red as that fallen petal. When I go to push myself up, my hands sink deeper into the snow, and I come close to gathering another mouthful of snow. With a release of air that puffs in front of my face in a cloud, I blow a strand of hair out of my face. Bringing myself to my knees, I brace a hand on the tree to climb to my feet.
I brush off the white powder that clings to my clothes and face.
"Well, it's not every day you come across a Pyro burning roses in a public park's grill, no less." I reply, going for nonchalance, which is the last thing I'm feeling right now.
I step away from the tree, giving up on hiding, even if that's all I want to do after I just biffed it.
His back is to me, and I feel some of my embarrassment fading from not having to meet his gaze.
He throws the rose into the flames, and it sizzles as the water held in the stem evaporates. I cringe as I watch the petals darken. They curl in, shrinking; it catches fire, burning to nothing.
The only remnant of the rose is the sweet scent that carries in the breeze from the smoke.
He spins in front of me, amusement flickering in his mischievous eyes like the flames dancing behind him. "You look as if it's you burning to ash in the flames, not simply a rose." His head tips down, hair falling forward, obscuring part of his face as a small smirk tugs at his lips.
"I'm a florist." I mumbled.
He blinks, staring at me.
Then an unrestrained grin splits his lips, eyes flickering with a secret I'm not getting.
"Ah-ha. The look makes sense now, but I'm sure you can admit that out of all the flowers, roses deserve to be burned the most." He taps a finger beneath my chin teasingly, then draws his hand back.
I must be expressing my disagreement, because he steps back, disappointment dimming the mischievous glint in his gaze. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back fallen strands, and stares off into the distance.
I shouldn't have followed the smoke.
It didn't lead me anywhere, but to a guy that's not in his right mind.
His eyes snap back to me, narrowing, almost like he knows what I'm thinking. I fidget with the tassels at the end of my scarf, wrapping and unwrapping them around my fingers as I shuffle my feet in place.
Carefully, I take a step back, planning to make my departure.
"I'm not crazy," he mutters, disgruntled.
"That's what a crazy person would say, Pyro." I scoffed, foot poised in the air to take my second step back.
"I'm not crazy!" He bellows, stomping his foot into the snow like a child throwing a tantrum, then blurts out. "If you must know, I hate Valentine's Day. Which is ironic, considering I'm Cupid."
His hand smacks over his mouth, eyes widening like he's spilled a secret he wasn't supposed to.
I can't help it; I burst into laughter.
Arms clutch at my cramping stomach, and I bend at the waist, hair curtaining the tears pearling on my lower lid from his view. My shoulders shake, and for the second time today I find myself in the snow, falling back. Gazing at the sky; I continue to laugh.
I'm sobering from my laugh fest when he leans over me with a glare.
"If you're Cupid, I'm America's Sweetheart." I giggle, brushing frozen tears off my cheeks, when I see his hands balling up into fists at his side.
"I'm really Cupid!" A blush tints his cheeks, and self-consciously, he scratches at the back of his head.
"Uh-huh, sure. It's been years since I laughed like that; you're a comedian." My limbs stretch across the snow, gaze drifting across the sky, looking for a heart in the clouds like always.
I've never seen one, but that never stops me from looking.
My faint smile disappears as I pull my scarf over my lips, and the traces that linger in the air from my breath dissipate.
I should get up and leave this stranger claiming to be Cupid, but there's something holding me here. Maybe it's the cold freezing the blood in my veins, weighing my body down, or maybe it's curiosity. I need to know why the Pyro was out here burning roses on Valentine's Day, and that reckless wonderment could be about to get me killed.
At least I'll know my murderer was a strange little bird, as my grandmother used to say.
"You don't believe me?" He asked lying down next to me, his gaze finding the sky.
"Not even the slightest bit, Pyro."
"What would make you believe me?โ
My teeth gently gnaw on my bottom lip as I contemplate playing along with his little game of make-believe. If my grandmother were here in my place, she wouldn't hesitate for a second to get wrapped up in the twisted web and fall victim to the lies he'll spin.
It will make quite the story of your own someday, little sprout.
A dull throb appears in my chest, a familiar ache that's been lingering in my heart since the day my grandmother died, two years ago. Sadness threatens to chase away the remnants of the humor I felt hearing the strange guy lying next to me call himself Cupid.
With thoughts of my grandmother at the forefront of my mind.
I'll stay, I decide.
"If a heart appears in the sky, I'll believe everything you tell me.โ
