“Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
–Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Susan wakes. Her arms and feet are tightly bound to a straight-back chair. A thick cloth blinds her eyes, she inhales an odd sweet taste.
Her arms recognize the silk of her blouse. Her waist feels where her skirt pinches when she sits.
She searches for pain, injury, down her arms, her legs… between her legs.
nothing, thank god.
Her bare feet feel rub cool marble and she hears a rustle like a jacket being removed or wings brushing together. A thick finger presses her lips and a voice expands inside her head with a rushing of wind.
“Shhh. It will all become clear, my love. Just a minute’s work and you will see.”
She flinches at his touch as warmth spreads up her arm. Her lips move but her tongue is leaden. A hand clamps her head as the warmth swells over her.
The blindfold is jerked down. She squints thickly, feels hot breath on her neck. The voice, Cupid’s, like a growing storm, “Look, my love.”
Her head tilts up.
A canopy of moonless night spreads over her, a black void except for the eyes – billions of eyes – where stars should be. Perfect, twinkling spheres. Blue. Green. Brown. Black. Hazel. No brows arching in surprise. No ducts shedding tears. No lids blocking what should never be seen.
He directs her gaze to a empty area of the sky. “For you, my love.”
The voice bursts the levy of her soul, she empties into the vastness of black. Infinite. Seeing. Forever adoring blind Cupid.