Page 1 of Cupid's Last Arrow

1

STUCK

“Deedra! Whatisthis mess?” Carl calls from the living room.

My roommate-slash-best friend huffs with irritation. He only calls me Deedra, and not Dee, when he’s annoyed with me.

I race out of my room and into the living room. “I thought you’d be at work for a while longer!”

Carl digs his fingers into his short brown hair. Taking in my, uh…creative process, he looks at me and shakes his head, amused that I would assume he’d still be out. “It’s eight o’clock at night.”

My eyes bug out. I check the clock as if he’s lying or misinformed, but no, I have lost track of time—again. Hurriedly, I pick up all my photo proofs from every surface in the usually sterile living room. I have my photos spread out on the couch, coffee table, and floor. I try to keep them in order as I scramble to get them out of Carl’s sight, but I’m bungling my poorly honed organizational system.

I curse myself for not cleaning up before he returned home. If I plan on making a living at this wedding photographer gig, Ineed to be better organized and not get lost in the creative aspect all the time.

“I suppose this means you didn’t make anything for us to eat,” Carl states, already picking up his phone to order takeout. He knows me too well.

Shrugging with my pile of photos, I melodramatically creep back into my room, my knees coming up high, hoping to make him laugh. I hear a chuckle as a reward for my antics.

He calls out, “Dee, is pizza good?”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” I yell playfully, like a soldier from my bedroom-slash-photography studio. A curtain partitions my bed from my work area, but not because I have clients come to my house. One, Carl wouldn’t like people coming and going, and two, neither would I. I suppose we are both essentially introverts, although I enjoy meeting new people as an extrovert does. I swing both ways—a true ambivert.

Whatever the reason, it’s better to meet clients on site because it gives me insight into their tastes and sensibilities or lack thereof. I can quickly let them know if a location will work. I’m always surprised how people see a location. When I frame a shot, I actuallylookat what’s in the background, but a lot of folks only see the beauty of their special place and often overlook random stuff that detracts from picturesque immortalization.

Their idealization is kind of a nice way to look at life. I get the concept, since I’m always striving to find the beauty in things.

I flip through my photos and stack them on my desk. Next, I power off my high-end and wildly expensive large format photo printer, then I take a moment to gaze down at the photos from my latest gig.

My fingers idly trace the happy couple in the photos. They are in love,truelove—the kind that radiates out and smacks single people, like me, in the face. I felt the sting when I was near them.

Will I ever have that?

The doorbell rings, and I rush out of my room to pay for the pizza. I grab my purse and yank out some cash. “Here!” I pay the delivery guy as Carl takes the box to the kitchen.

After I shut the door, Carl says, “This doesn’t get you out of a cooking night.”

“But I justpaid!” I pout.

“ButIhad to call,” he retorts.

“Yeah, that whole twenty seconds of work must have been rough.” I cross my arms as he ironically dishes out the slices onto his best china.

“AndI’mserving it.” He grins. We have a way of poking fun at each other that’s light and easy.

“Then I want a side salad and maybe a garnish of some sort, if you are claiming it as your night,” I counter, aiming to get his goat.

Carl pulls out a prewashed container of lettuce, grabs a handful, and drops it onto my plate.

I smirk. “And the garnish?”

He tosses a tangerine on the plate too. “Garishanda potential dessert.”

Comically, I bow my gratitude, taking my proffered plate. “You are an excellent chef. A master, truly.”

We sit down at our immaculate, frosted glass dining table and begin to eat.

“Got lost in your work again?” Carl asks, his dark brown eyes studying me as if I might float away in an artist’s cloud of inspiration, which, to be honest, I might do.

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