“You’re pulling my leg, right? You have to be.”
I shake my head no, I’mnotpulling his leg. “I don’t really like music,” I say in my defense.
“You don’t…like…music? Who doesn’tlike music? What do you listen to if not music?”
My shoulders touch my ears in a shrug. “Podcasts. The news.”
Cupid looks at me, horrified. “Podcasts?The news? Fuck, Felicity, no wonder you’re so big on this anti-love stuff. You’re living a life devoid of joy.”
“Hey! I have…joy…” I say, trailing off.
That’s not exactly a lie. But when I really think about it, I suppose I don’t have much joy in my life, other than work and my best friend. “There’s nothing wrong with being informed.”I lift my chin defiantly.
“You know what?” Cupid wipes his hands and tosses the napkin into a bag. “We’re going to fix this—right here, right now.”
“Fix what?”
“Your frankly astonishing lack of culture,” he says. I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “I don’t want to hear it, Love. We’ve got,” he looks at his watch, “about four more hours on the road. We’ve barely said a word the whole trip, I’mbored out of my mind, and you don’t know even the most basic love songs.”
I try again to protest.
“No excuses. This lesson is non-negotiable,” Cupid says with finality.
“Fine,” I acquiesce, taking a big swig of my soda before backing out of the parking spot. “But I’m not going to like it.”
“We’ll see about that,” Cupid replies, teeth flashing in a brilliant smile.
So that’s how we spend the next few hours of our trip: Me driving as Cupid acts as DJ; him singing along to songs I don’t know and telling me why Ishouldknow them; and every once in a while, a song comes on that makes me feel…well. Makes me feel things.
As the miles tick up on the odometer, as the music switches between slow dirges and fast poppy songs—some I know, some I’ve never heard—Cupid’s warmth chips away at my chilly resolve. I told myself this wouldn’t be a problem, yet here I am, letting him break my ice. We’re treading into dangerous waters, I know. But, I reason, with the arrow…
With the arrow, maybe it’s okay. Softeningto him doesn’t necessarily mean I’mlosing, it just means I’m honoring the experiment. I could try to resist, I suppose. Then again, who am I to resist the powers of a god?
Besides, there’s a lightness to him that makes me feel lighter as well. More than anyone I’ve ever met, Cupid seems to know how to put me at ease. In his company, it doesn’t even feel like I’m beingput at easeso much as it’s simply easy to be around him.
Over the last few hours, my shoulders have lowered from my ears, I’ve stopped tensing my jaw, and I’ve even caught myself bobbing my head along to the music. Cupid catches me in the act. I immediately still, embarrassed to be caught.
Cupid turns the volume down and looks at me. “So what do you think of love songs now?” he asks. He has the audacity to look smug.
“Kinda catchy,” I say with a shrug. “Still full of shit, though,” I add, cutting him a quick look. “But not too bad.”
Cupid’s eyebrows draw together. “Full of shit? No way. They’re inspirational,” he says.
“I appreciate your commitment to your job, but I just can’t get past…” I pause, thinking. “Don’t you think all of these love songs are kind of, I don’t know—silly?”
He sits back and stays quiet for several seconds before responding. One thing I’ve started to notice about Cupid is that he doesn’t always immediately respond to my questions. He actually takes the time to contemplate and take them seriously—something I’m not quite used to from men.
“It seems to me…” he begins, finger tapping thoughtfully on his chin, “that you think the good parts of love are frivolous. Maybe you even think I’m frivolous.” We exchange a glance, and his expression is reserved but kind. “I mean, of course, my work isn’t all sunshine and rainbows and orgasms.”
I choke awkwardly at the mention of orgasms, thinking about my unfortunate dream.
“That’s the fun stuff—and itisfun, which is why so many people write about it or sing about it, or make art about it. The other stuff…” He takes a beat. “Love can wrench you apart and make you feel like you’ll never get the pieces back together in the right order. That’s just part of what makes the fun stuff so worth it, I guess.”
“But you’re making my argumentforme! Why even subject yourself to getting broken like that, when you could just…not?”
Silence, then: “Have you heard of kintsugi?”
“No? Is that a musician?”
