Skinny Jeans, an Indian print sweater, leather jacket and scarf was a perfect trendy look for the quarter. I pulled my hair up and back into a sleek ponytail, grabbed my cons for good feet cover, and my entire uniform and makeup tote for work later.
The quarter was swarming with bold colors and loud music, always loud. I grabbed a bite at a café on Magazine Street before hitting the quarter for some shopping and fun. Such strange clothing my family would shudder at, mandatory for my new wardrobe. A bright shirt with creepy voodoo faces coral and lime green and royal purple decorating its skulls. A dress, A-line with sleeves and a turtleneck black and perfect in general. I found a shiny glittery light pink and grey vest to wear with it for a pop. Before breaking for some dinner before work, a dress shop called Le Fleur dis Paris caught my eye. Stepping in, I recognized it; I had been here a few months ago for my sister's formal. I looked at the dresses covered in plastic. Some bold and couture, runway definitely, with styles even too bold for New Orleans itself. Red crystals over silver satin, Blue streaks of glitter over canary yellow mermaid bottom, even one with black lace over lime green leather that was skinny and had a slit that would make J Lo blush or buy it, these dresses were Hollywood. Models with wallets deeper than the seas they crossed shopped here, and the elite of the area, my family, just never…me. I was rummaging through the racks when one caught my eye, and the sales woman took note, a good one, convincing me to buy it for my family's next ball I called my stepmom who was thrilled at the thought I was in there, and even more I bought something to where from somewhere besides the mall and of true class. I walked out embarrassed and a bit ashamed I broke my rule not to be my family. I stashed the dress and other bags in my car and drove and parked it at my job. Uniform in hand I changed in the staff restroom and hid my clothes under the front desk. Work was back.
An hour of the job in Mr. Erogen appears and orders his usual caramel macchiato coffee. I observe his mannerisms, the way his hands and the small coffee cup play with one another, hinting at boredom. His eyes are gleaming still, and every now and again they look up at me. I notice that the lights of the pool currently match the shine of his eyes; they are both a glowing soft blue. I feel those eyes on me like a hot flash, spreading in every direction from my heart.
Another hour goes by, and Mr. Erogen has gone up to his room for the night I am told by the server. The evening creeps by, I feel every cold breeze as the night begins to fall, and I see every leaf wind its way down in the wind. This is the slow start of the season, the cold of the start of a Louisiana winter. On break I order a pumpkin spice cappuccino to keep me warm for the rest of the night. As I return from break, I find a note; I am to call Mr. Erogen as soon as my shift ends in three hours. Midnight. This man will have been in that suite for five hours, God only knows what he has been up to for so long. Lights bounce off the walls surrounding the pool a thousand times or so it seems before the shift finally ticks away its last seconds. Here I come, though I don't know why, Mr. Erogen.
The walkway to Mr. Erogen's room is a cement step one surrounded by bushes of roses and sculptures. There is a lemon tree near the small corner near his door, maybe by his choice for fresh lemon. I knock on his door, nervous, cold, and yet still feeling my hot blood rush and speed up. Blue eyes, pale skin on a strong jaw, open the door. He is beautiful up close, like looking at the moon; he glows from afar but seems untouchable even up close. His black hair once again hiding a part of his ethereal face, I can't see all that is his otherworldly face.
"Miss Blackfjord, thank you for accepting my invitation for company tonight." He says, straight posture and open hand and arm stance. He escorts me in to the couch and coffee table, both a rich cherry color, though the couch is of deep warm leather. I find a soft spot in the couch and lean against a crimson velvet pillow.
"Why…Why did you invite me?" I asked softly, trying to contain my anxiety level, now reaching for panic size.
He stands near the bookshelf of hundreds of novels, old and new. "You seem promising, Miss Blackfjord…may I call you Dorothy? But I will explain later. I want to know more about you right now."
"Well, I'm nineteen, a college dropout, for now. I live in a small broke down house in a broke down but cool part of the city. My family is wealthy, but no, I am not a brat. Currently, I am a disappointment, actually. I am now your service desk girl trying to live, not sure what. And yes, you can call me Dorothy."
"Well then, Dorothy, I am Emile. Tell me about your childhood, something deeper and a little less sarcastic..."
"Are you a pedophile or something? I am going to hope not, I don't know open pedophiles who rent hotel suites for long periods of time…. I grew up here, enjoyed a lot of fancy parties, and went to a private catholic school full of snotty bitches my entire life span. I was polished and poised to be a socialite, but failed when I left college and cut my hair from classic to modern retro. I never liked the pageants they put me in as a child so I stopped as a teen. I have a stepsister who is the perfect example of who I should be. "
What's wrong with you?"
"I am not normal, I run from the good life."
"Maybe you ran toward a better life."
I feel my nerves again, I have no clue what exactly I am running towards, but he seems to think he does. I wonder about him, and I feel this man owes me far more of an explanation than I do to him.
So what was your childhood like?" I ask him boldly.
"I grew up in a castle, not on a famous mountain. I was spoiled since day one and adored by all. I am a sucker for games of the mental sort, have been since childhood. Books have been a love of mine since I became an adult; they are a fun way to view people. I love Love, but have only been in love once."
That was a weird description of a childhood. But I have to admit, the part about his love life had caught my attention.
"So…what was…he or she like?" I asked him quietly.
He nearly choked on his fresh macchiato. "SHE…" he laughed out, "was something to see for sure. Long dark brown hair and big blue eyes. She always kept her hair up until I told her how stunning it was when it flowed through free air. Men always did love her. It got her into trouble for a while. She was naïve, extremely dedicated, and timeless, and some of that she still is. Time just brought out her darker and more troublesome side, one of conceit. So we are no more."
He loved her, a lot. They were together for a long time, at least to him. Probably over five years. I can imagine some model of Vogue with an engagement ring on her finger from him, smiling with long hair, thick and ideal. I feel meager next to this; my thin, chestnut colored hair and hazel brown eyes are nothing that extraordinary. I am only 5"5, and I could be skinnier I guess. I am pale as Hell, like I had grown up down there.
"Dorothy, I am not a normal citizen, nor a person of American standards. I am rather different, and you need to know this before sticking around. If you do choose to stick around after hearing more about me, I can erase all of this from your memory, leave you as you were a day ago. I have you here because you have met a standard I have been looking for."
Ok, he is dangerous, maybe an illegal alien. I have hit his standard, what the hell? This is getting too creepy. I feel in danger, but I also have this weird feeling growing in me, too big for me to understand yet.
"What do you mean, tell me what?" I asked, this time with more anxiety slipping through my pout.
He sits near me, two books in hand. One of the Bible, the other of old Greek Mythology. "You believe in God? Do you believe someone with more than mortal power could exist without hard evidence?"
"Yes, I was taught to."
"Exactly…you were taught to believe in a singular God. Now follow me, there is a God, but I am also telling you there is more than one…"
"Are you Hindu?"
"No, Dorothy, I am not. I am ancient."
"….And what does that mean?"
"…I am older than the shadow man in your dreams, and he was right to warn you about me…"
I jumped back, how the hell he knew about my dream! Who was this freak?
"How did you know that? Who are you trying to say you are? What the hell!"
"Dorothy, I am a God, just not one in your Bible. I am in here." His hands push the book of Greek Mythology towards me, and opened it to a particular story I had heard of, Eros and Psyche.
I get it, he thinks he is a Greek god, the Greek god of matchmaking too. Eros, aka Cupid. "So, you are Eros, Aphrodite's son. Husband to Psyche." I state, unconvinced.
"Ex-lover of Psyche, we are no more; she has decided to have a dangerous inner struggle. And yes the story is true. So now I am here, looking for a type of someone for a type of situation."
"I thought you two were eternally married by Zeus? That she proved her love so well that you begged to be bound to her. She went to Hades for you, was that not enough? She went to Hell and back so you let her go?" I asked mockingly.
"She did all of it, and after many years with me wanted to be powerful outside of being with me. She wanted her own strength. She wants her own legend. Soul has been ripped from heart. Look at the world to see when. When did marriage die? When did love become more tragic than happily ever after? She left me and humanity felt the split. "
"And I am supposed to believe this, right? No drugs or anything?" I asked.
His hands held each other, and clenched. Slowly, they began to open, something glowing in the middle. There, between his now largely spaced open hands, a perfect gold arrow floated.
"The arrow of love, it is my weapon, my gift. Now, it is my proof."
I felt my head spinning; he had made something appear out of nothing, and of all things, an arrow. Looking down trying to steady myself, I looked at the Greek Mythology book. The pictures were moving, playing out. There, on the page in front of me, a figure of a beautiful woman stood at the Gates of Hades.
"So if I stay, I will know of a real Heaven and Hell?" I ask him, scared and confused.
"You may get to visit even if you prove useful. Nothing that deals with me has ever been easy, though, understanding that now." His blue eyes serious, maybe even a bit sad were looking at me.
I hold my breath, cautious with my next statement. "To Hell and back?" I asked.
"…To Hell and back", he says, his eyes sparkling with a new grin.
Tonight I will hear his story, and that of Psyche. I will hear why the perfect pair split, and somewhere in there find why he needs me now.
