Cupid is an Ant

She shot into the quiet galaxy of my existence like a meteorite out of the blue. Her cherubic face, plump figure in blue jeans and white blouse plopped into my vision as I looked up from my reading in the library. She walked towards me like a dream and perched on the chair next to mine.

Intrigued, my heart nudged me to take the step — turn to her, engage her whole being in meaningful conversation, rock her galaxy as she had done mine — lest she flashed out of the orbit of my reality. If only I had the courage.

Instead, I stole furtive glances and then I saw my inspiration hanging on her neck: a lone, tiny, dark ant, conspicuous against her fair skin.

I tapped her softly, told her she had an insect hanging on her neck. She shrieked, jerked her shoulders down to shake the ant loose, too timid to brush it off with her hand.

I offered to get it off her, happy to be the knight in shining armor and save the damsel in distress.

In this brief, unwonted, silly episode, which the intervention of our minuscule fellow being afforded us, we shared a candid moment. In that fleeting moment, we glimpsed one another’s naked soul. A spark I swore I also saw in her green eyes such as galaxies create when they collide, resulting in the birth of new star.

In any case, I pulled closer to her, closer than I needed to, picked up the ant lightly between my thumb and forefinger, and tossed it away gently. Just before it plodded away, I imagined the ant turned around and winked at me.



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