The arrow nearly struck Paige, but some carefully honed instinct warned her just in time to duck. The missile hit a building’s façade and disintegrated harmlessly.
She whirled to find her assailant and found him crouching by a Postal Service collection box.
“You chubby little shit!” she yelled, heedless of her fellow pedestrians who were beginning to watch her with some interest. “I should kick your ass all the way to Poughkeepsie.”
“No, you should let me do my job and make you happy.”
“Happy? When the hell have you ever made anyone happy? You’re making me miserable!”
Then Paige remembered – again – that she was the only one around who could see Cupid. As far as her fellow New Yorkers were concerned, she was having a one-sided screaming match with a mailbox. For most of them, this rated no more than a three on the weirdness scale, but it was the only street theater they had at the moment so they watched. Continue reading “Fiction: Jeune Fille se Defendant”